Devlin Potter's Story
by GingeredTea
Summary: What would you do if your child was kidnapped and killed by Voldemort? What if 4yrs later you found out he was alive? What if your greatest enemy was claiming your child was his grandson? Welcome to Harry Potter's life. Extremely AU.
1. Chapter 1

**I started this story under a different pen name in 2005, but then life and college and so much more got in the way. Throughout the years I have kept writing bits and pieces of it on my own and a year or two ago when I tried to update the story I realized I had entirely lost the password to my account. I guess that's what two new computers do to you (okay so my first computer consisted of borrowing my mom's). Realizing that updating would take some time, I went and did the other real life stuff that had to be done, intending to get back to it. Midterms and finals and family stuff got in the way until this week, when I was writing another piece and said "I just have to" and I made a new account. This story, however, will vary significantly from my previous publication. I will be posting a chapter at a time as I give them one more read through. I suspect the first six to go up fairly quickly (all of the previously published chapters) and for the others to follow at a fairly consistent pace. A few snippets of things that are related to the story but may never make it into the main story will be posted as one-shots. A good review usually gets my butt back into gear, too. ;)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the original characters found in the Harry Potter series. J.K. Rowling owns these characters.**

So, here we go:

Chapter One – The Informant

The end is like the beginning – uncertain.

Harry Potter does not like Death Eater's. He does not like them in battle, when their taunts create a strange, pounding anger in his chest that urges him to lash out at them, controlled only by the knowledge that around him, others who fight along side him feel the same. He does not like them when they form a circle around his men; it is when he feels most out of control, longing for nothing more then to render onto them the same service they have rendered onto so many innocent people. The thought proves to him over and over again how far he has traveled from innocence. He does not like them when they are standing quietly in a queue, waiting as the Aurors walk down the line and pull the skull-like mask from each of their faces to reveal the human behind it; the human who cannot be human at all to have done such heartless acts. No, Harry Potter does not like Death Eater's at all, but he hates them most when they are sitting in his office.

The Death Eater is sitting back on one of the leather chairs, looking across his desk at a family picture of him, his wife, baby daughter, and son. The picture is almost five years old. With his hands bound behind his back with magical ropes, Harry knows the comfortable appearance he presents is no more an act. When he had opened the door, the Death Eater's face had jolted around to regard him with eyes of an unusually pale shade of amber; their intenseness reminds Harry of Remus, but these eyes are more feral and less in control than Remus could ever dread to achieve. He looks away and makes to sit behind his desk.

"Sorry for the short notice, Harry, but this ones on you. His paper work has to go through the recant route," Ron says. Ronald Weasley's appearance has not changed much from school, except that, as most do when nearing their thirties, he has lost the boyish features which lingered about his cheeks and in his smile well after school. With such growth come the lines of stress, across the forehead and around the mouth, which accompany every face Harry peers into, young or old, these days. Harry hates himself when he looks into people's eyes and sees their suffering. He hates Voldemort too. But he hates Death Eaters the most; each had a choice and all the hundreds of them chose to be on the side of evil.

Harry takes a deep breath. By using the word 'recant', Ron has signaled his true meaning: the Death Eater wants to renounce Voldemort and join the Order as a spy. Ron would have already interrogated him along with a second Order member, both hiding behind the shield of Aurors. Now it is Harry's job, as Head Auror (and Order member), to slip the man's papers through the system in a way that Voldemort's Ministry lackeys will not notice. The papers have to end up lost, unknowingly appearing on Dumbledore's desk. What happens to them after they are lost will never be spoken of. Dumbledore will never admit to his source of information and Harry will never admit to handling the case. End of conversation. The Boy-Who-Lived does not lie in court.

"Take him to a holding cell; I will speak to him at a later date." He does not confirm whether he heard Ron's signal, but Ron knows he has. He is already scanning the paperwork Ron put on his desk. The man's name is Geoffrey Goddard. "I'll be sure to inform you if I need further information, Mr. Weasley." The wink Harry sends Ron is half-hearted; Ron pauses hesitantly before, shaking his head sadly, he draws his eyes away from Harry's. They seem so haunted. He has been watching them darken a shade every day over the past four years; he wonders sometimes if he will come to dinner one night and those emerald eyes, nearly as symbolic of Harry Potter as the scar on his head, will be black.

"You need a break, mate. Go home early, Harry. This guy can wait until tomorrow…you look tired." 'Tired' is a huge understatement, Ron thinks, as he looks his best friend over. Whenever Ron says 'tired' to Harry, he never really means the word in a single fashion. It stands for and represents much more, such as being overworked, suicidal, on edge, stretched too thin, miserable... He rarely ever says the others outright, though. Harry doesn't need him to – he understands perfectly well what his best friend means.

Ron gives a last sigh at the empty eyes and yanks the prisoner up. Geoffrey's gaze is forced away from the family photo he has been regarding so intently. Except for the initial arrest, Goddard hadn't put up a struggle with any Aurors. He had brokenly admitted to his crimes and asked to become a spy. It is strange and annoying then, when, just as Ron is about to shove him out the door, he stops dead. Damn it, Ronald Weasley hates those who just stop in their tracks and become dead weight! He hates it.

"My wand is still at the back of your neck, Mr. Goddard," he drawls, but the man remains facing Harry's desk, mouth moving wordlessly, eyes still regarding the picture. He didn't seem to feel Ron jab at his back.

"I've seen that boy before…" His voice is broken and horse. He had been offered no water through his interrogation nor any after it. Ron pauses, slightly confused – it was not unusual for Death Eaters to break beyond repair once captured. He follows the other's gaze, intending to access the situation and decide whether to risk bringing him to the infirmary and having them peek into his mind. But the gaze is still mesmerized by the Potter family portrait. Silence descends.

"I'm sure you have. Your master killed him four years ago," Harry's voice is sharp and bitter; it devours the air like fire eats at thin parchment.

Ron is in agony; he is torn between wanting the man to confess more and wanting to gag him, throw him (and the painful past he has brought up) into the deepest canyon on earth, as far away from Harry as possible. For a moment, Ron imagines Harry's eyes have turned black.

"He wouldn't scream…" There is a hollowness to the Death Eaters words; like a man who has swallowed the whole vial of truth serum in one gulp. It has been hours since Ron gave him the antidote for the three drops used for questioning him. Ron isn't sure if he is purposely attempting to torture Harry or if he really should have heeded the Mediwitch's concerns over the stray spell which hit the man's head. "Foolish, silly child – he should never have called the Dark Lord by his real name. Stupid, stubborn child – he should have screamed and showed weakness."

Harry rises from his chair and Ron closes the door, but neither dare move any more, lest they break the trance-like state that has enveloped the entire office.

"The Dark Lord called him by a name…I could never quite get myself to say it correctly. Dev – it began as Dev, but I gave up on the name long ago. He didn't seem to mind my own version. I called him Dubhán. He tore his eyes from the picture and toward Potter's. "I had a nephew named Dubhán, once." Harry realizes, staring back into the golden eyes, that Geoffrey is a Werewolf. "My Mast – Voldemort saw something in the boy…he never killed him. He told us that he was his grandson."

Geoffrey is almost certain Harry Potter's heart has skipped at least three beats, unlike the red-head, Weasley, who's heart seems to double its speed, pumping blood into every part except his face, which is as white as cream. Tangling in the tension and uncertainty of the room, Geoffrey can sense hope. Hope is strange when it comes from people who have learned hope is more a symbol of fighting, a symbol others can recognize and cling to, then a true emotion. It is bitter, lingering in the air like the sweet-scent from a hidden sleep potion steaming up from a cup of tea. He waits in silence, knowing that speaking will be seen only as persuasion, yet knowing silence is seen as the same.

"Prove it." Potter's magic, seeping from him, is deep and calm – Geoffrey is reminded distinctly of Dubhán's own magic. Even in anger, it is freezing. But his voice is demanding and intimidating. Geoffrey has opened a door that can lead either to his safety, because of the importance of his information, or death, because he will be the one person in the Ministry's control which has aided in the imprisonment of Harry Potter's son.

"Tell me how I may do so, Mr. Potter," Either way, he doesn't want to die here and now, tied up and weak from lack of water and hours of questioning. Weasley steers him back into one of the chairs, while Potter moves from behind his desk. Geoffrey is walking on the edge of a velvet-covered knife.

"Give me evidence." Potter whispers fiercely. "Prove to me that St. Mungo's best staff are inept at identifying a _dead_ body." His magic has one difference from Dubhán's: it does not stay cold – it boils and unfurls slowly, billowing out around him like steam.

"I am a man who has given his very freedom up to your side…I have no evidence to provide. If I showed you my memories you would accuse me of creating them. If I make an oath of truth you will say that I have nothing to loose and therefore, why should I not risk death? I have no way to assure you completely, Mr. Potter. At the same time – you have no way to completely prove I am lying." Geoffrey is a man who has gown up knowing about distrust. He is a Werewolf. He also knows the art of manipulation and persuasion. Potter's weakness, at this moment, in this room, is the notion that he might have given up on a child who had never really died. Doubt has entered his mind. Geoffrey will not allow him to bury it. It is to his own benefit to keep it fresh in Potter's mind.

"Nevertheless, you will do both." Finality settles forebodingly in Potter's voice. He is not taking the bait as eagerly as Geoffrey had hoped.

"It is against the law for an Auror to seek a Truth Oath from an imprisoned man." He states this not defensively but as the fact it is. Potter cannot ask him to engage in any Oath, magical or otherwise. Neither can Weasley.

"That is true. There is no such law, however, for a member of the Wizengamot**.**" There is no smile on Potter's face – it is as blank as Voldemort's before he casts the Cruciatus Curse. He wonders, distantly, what Harry Potter's Cruciatus Curse is. Every powerful man has a favored form of torture.

"Should I call Dumbledore, Harry?" Weasley asks. Potter shakes his head and makes his way casually over to the fireplace on the other side of the room.

"I will."

Geoffrey stays staring ahead of himself – wondering what luck has fated him to be in the same room as Albus Dumbledore _and_ Harry Potter. The Floo Powder lights the room green – Geoffrey thinks cynically of Avada Kedavra.

"Harry! What a pleasant, quite unexpected, surprise. What may I do for you?" Dumbledore's voice is somber and quiet by the end. Perhaps he can see through Potter's masks – perhaps he sees the brooding and disquiet behind it that Geoffrey can only sense in his magic.

"I need to bring a prisoner through, Headmaster. We find it necessary to speak with him _privately_." Of any word Geoffrey would have liked to come from Potter's mouth, "privately" is the farthest from it. Privacy means safely and safely means without the worry of breaking Ministry laws.

Geoffrey is not certain he likes the idea of being brought to such a secluded spot. He wonders what possessed him to open his mouth and say such a stupid thing. Potter will never get _his_ child back. That boy was lost the moment he had been brought to stand before Voldemort.

Dear Merlin, he wants to survive, not be killed by an enraged Harry Potter.

Geoffrey has never seen the Headmaster of Hogwarts Witchcraft and Wizardry's office before. He did not attend Hogwarts. Nevertheless, he feels as if he knows the room already. After all, one does not interact with so many Slytherins without knowing what the Headmaster's office looks like (in detail), or the reasons why (usually in the form of a lecture) the Slytherin house is the most superior and prestigious of the four houses. Little trinkets, lining the walls and hanging from the ceiling, confuse the eye and befuddle the mind.

"Hello, Mr. Goddard." The words have already been uttered and left to linger in the room before Geoffrey even considers the possibility that the Headmaster is _present. _He decides, in his defense, that the Headmaster either has spells cast on the room or on his own person. Geoffrey's Ministry file lay in front of the Headmaster like a student's recorded crimes. He shoves the sensation of childishness down – kicking it until it is silent. He is not a child. He will not allow himself to feel like a pup being towered over by an angry adult.

"In the learned behaviors of our culture and species it is proper to reply likewise, Mr. Goddard." The voice is light and teasing, but it irks Geoffrey nevertheless. He grits his teeth and shakes his inner wolf awake, urging his eyes to dilate and turn solid amber. It is a trick he has learned from years spent in Voldemort's ranks, but the ability to walk the thin line between tame and feral never looses its danger. He opens his mouth, forcing out the sounds that make up human speech.

"Hello, Mr. Dumbledore." Dumbledore has no reaction to his gaze; he merely nods, smiles, and looks back down at Geoffrey's record. Geoffrey feels his wolf frown as he pushes it back into its cage.

"Harry, dear boy, enlighten me." He is signaling the lack of anything of importance in his file, Geoffrey is certain. Before admitting to having information on Devlin Potter Geoffrey had been the same as any other Death Eater looking to become a spy.

"Goddard came into my office with Ron in order to be put down the Recant Route. While seated in my office, he seemed content to stare into space. He was, in fact, staring at the family portrait taken four years ago. As Ron was about to leave with him, he admitted that he had known the boy in the picture." Dumbledore regards Geoffrey like a man examining an object of interest while listening as its owner explains its faults and advantages. "He admitted to having information on…Devlin." Dumbledore's unnerving gaze, that he had refuses to part with, leaves him in favor of Potter. Geoffrey will never admit aloud how relieved he is to be rid of those eyes. "We would like to use the Order's Pensieve."

"The Pensieve is, of course, open for your use. However," Dumbledore took a deep breath, regarding Geoffrey once more, "perhaps some initial, baseline, questions are in order?" Geoffrey knows the workings of Pensieves when used in an interrogation. He is a Death Eater; he has watched the procession of a detailed questioning that inevitably leads to torture. Somehow, he finds it hard to shake the images of pain from his mind. They are going to ask him question and see if his memories contradict his answers. Potter gives a reluctant, grudging, nod; the Headmaster begins. He can only hope that the 'Light's' form of torture is less painful than Voldemort's.

"How old is the boy whom you call Devlin?"

"He is eight."

"What colors are Devlin's eyes?"

"They are Green – darker than Potter's."

"What is the color of Devlin's hair?"

"It is black."

"How old was Devlin when you first met him?"

"He was four years old – he turned five shortly after."

"Who did Devlin say his parent's were?"

"He didn't."

"Devlin did not state either parents first or last names?"

"Not that I am aware of." Geoffrey thinks they will linger on this subject, but Dumbledore seems to decide otherwise. Potter looks annoyed at the decision.

"Did Devlin come to you with any medical issues?"

"He was a Werewolf."

"As you are also?"

"Yes."

"What is the color of Devlin's magic?"

"Gre-" Geoffrey falls abruptly silent. Yes, there are definitely spells in this room.

"Ah – you see magic, Mr. Goddard?" He nods stiffly. "I thought as much. It is a rare power, but it has its own magical aura to it, yes?" Again, he nods. He realizes Dumbledore has been suppressing his aura for the sole reason Geoffrey not see the talent they share, in it. There is a kind smile tipping Dumbledore's lips upward – Geoffrey turns away.

Voldemort knows the system of rankings that Werewolves subconsciously use and manipulates it to his advantage. When he is standing in front of Voldemort, he _knows_ who is the Alpha. Voldemort would not have smiled. He would have not looked _kindly_ at him. It is an odd experience, trying to convince himself that Dumbledore is the boss. In a subconscious effort to think such, Geoffrey finds himself slouching in the chair, attempting to pretend Dumbledore is taller than him. _Anything_, to help him in believing he has no other way to survive. _Anything, _to save Dubhán.

"Now tell me, Mr. Goddard – what this boy is to you." It is an order, yet Geoffrey cannot bring himself to answer. As a mere child, Geoffrey knows he would have cared for Dubhán; his cynical jokes and silent power lend a kind of charm to him. But Dubhán is not a mere child: he is Werewolf. He is a part of Geoffrey's pack. He is a pup. It is his duty to protect him.

If he says all of this to Dumbledore he knows it will be his biggest contradiction, because he is also a Death Eater and Voldemort was also his master. Voldemort made very clear to whom Dubhán belonged.

"He is a boy I have failed to truly protect before…he is a child I am risking betrayal to Voldemort in order to protect." Geoffrey straightens himself in the chair and meets Dumbledore's gaze, something he would never have attempted without being prepared to die, with Voldemort. But perhaps that is his mistake; he is trying to make Dumbledore's side fit into the same design as Voldemort's side. Nevertheless, it seems impossible to shake it entirely from his mind.

"What is your relationship to Devlin, Mr. Goddard?"

"I am his Guard." Potter's head tips slightly and he drags in a breath of air. Dumbledore brings his hands onto the table and folds them neatly. Neither suspected his position. It has it advantages, Geoffrey is aware.

"And what, exactly, do you guard him against? It can't be those disease infected Death Eaters – you're one as well!" This is Ronald Weasley, the ever-impulsive Auror. Geoffrey holds back his temper and finds the will to smile. Death Eater's like to joke about Weasley's tendencies. Geoffrey builds a wall to cage the wolf with those jokes.

"I was ordered to protect him from outside dangers, from identification by spies, from angry Death Eaters who had no rank to harm him, and from himself. I have never received an order that would put him in mortal harm. Another Death Eater, myself included, has never been allowed to harm him." He words himself carefully; he knows neither truths nor lies must escape him in this office. The ground is fragile beneath his feet and he must make it to more stable earth. Alive.

"Mortal danger, how informing!" Weasley is a Gryffindor to the marrow; there is not a sleek or eloquent bone in his body. Just bravery. "There's a lot you can do to a person without placing them in mortal danger!"

"You said from himself?" Potter's voice is soft and uncertain. Geoffrey finds uncertainty sits unwell in Potter's eyes; like a great illness that you fear will infect the world. He wonders if he would feel the same, should uncertainty present itself in Voldemort, but decides it is a worthless question; Voldemort is either incapable or to calculated to show the emotion.

"So far as the child informed me, he was not bitten by one of the Dark Lord's Werewolves." Potter's jaw clenches, but he nods. There are not many Werewolf children in the world. It is rare that a grown Werewolf desire to bite a child. This excludes, of course, the Werewolves Voldemort keeps merely because of their extremism. They are usually stupid and more than half insane. He keeps them to kill. Geoffrey avoids them when possible. Dubhán won't step foot near them, even if his caretaker must.

"No, Devlin was bitten when he was very young." So honest. So brutally honest - even to his enemies face. Dubhán had never been willing to tell him how he was bitten. Truth be told, Geoffrey knew it had been before his capture from the healed wounds, not from the boy. Potter could have remained silent, or lied, but he told the truth. And now Geoffrey hates him. Hates him more then he ever did as a Death Eater. Harry Potter, the Boy-who-lived, the Savior of the Wizarding World, and Head Auror, had not protected his child. He wants to lung forward and pin him to the wall. But he won't. Survival reigns higher than even the beast within.

Silence falls between them. Potter fiddles with the hem of his Auror robes, Weasley with the ring on his finger, and Dumbledore with a strange trinket on his desk. He sighs.

Potter is too human. Voldemort is too inhuman. Dumbledore is too caring. Dubhán is too unchildlike. Geoffrey would like to know who or what chooses the destiny of the powerful. But he never will, so he sighs again.

"Perhaps, if the questions have concluded, we could move onto the actual viewing?" He no more wants to move onto it then he wants to be stood in front of Voldemort and proclaimed a traitor. He breaks the silence anyway, because it has to be done.

"Ah, yes, I do believe all pertaining questions have been answered. Harry, if you'd fetch the Pensieve for me. Ronald, if you wouldn't mind?" Geoffrey feels the unmistakable sensation of a wand against his temple.

"Now, Geoffrey, if you'd select a few memories of both recent and further past." Geoffrey decides he will come to loathe Dumbledore's unstoppable cheer and good nature. He decides he will come to fear ever pushing the man too far.

"I must ask, although Mr. Weasley's wand makes me entirely aware of my mortality, what you plan on doing with my information. What will be your plan of action toward Dubhán, once you know his appearance and location?" It is too late for the answer to change the outcome, but Geoffrey feels obligated to ask, nevertheless.

"We will rescue him." Potter seems oblivious to the fact that Dumbledore had been about to speak up, either that, or determined to set down his opinion before Dumbledore could utter his own. Once more, Geoffrey wonders who his new master really is. Who is more powerful.

The Headmaster's gaze lingers on him, disappointment making the regard heavy and sharp. He ignores it; disappointment means little to Harry these days…these years.

"What is _rescue _to you, Mr. Potter, may be _kidnapping _to Dubhán," Geoffrey forewarns, but he is easy to ignore as well.

"I think _now_ would be the ideal time to see these words in action. Focus on these truths you claim, Geoffrey, and let us see them played out." Dumbledore's words shake him back into the present. He does not like the present. He does not like his memories, either. He has an inkling, however that he might very well like the future.


	2. Memories Make the World Spin

This was actually supposed to be part of Chapter One, but it didn't copy over, soo….

As always, I own nothing from the original Harry Potter series.

Chapter Two – Memories Make the World Spin

Pensieves allow memories to be brought out of the individual and temporally rewritten in a format viewable to many, but Pensieves are also designed with Realistic-Recollection magic, which means they mimic the remembered environment to give a neutral point of view. Harry blinks into the dim lighting and waits for his eyes to adjust.

"We're in the Dark Lord's study." Geoffrey's voice twists into the air and hangs there unnaturally.

Deep greens and lighter grays play across the room like a forest in the full moon. He grabs hold of the comparison and saves it for the next time he is fighting Voldemort. Wouldn't he like that, that his decorating reminded him of werewolves? But flashes of sharp colors, scattered around the room in the form of pillows, books, trinkets, and magical artifacts, save Voldemort. They remind him, instead, of the scales on a poisonous snake. He will still use the first comparison.

"I'd never been in the room before; when Voldemort sent me to meet Dubhán here for the first time being alone with the boy, I knew it was heavily warded. He's five." Pensieves do not keep magical auras or telltale hints, but years of Auror training have him skimming the room for the signs of wards and spying spells, anyway. He doesn't find them.

He finds something else; green eyes, swirling with gold, peek over the rim of a book from the darkest corner of the chamber. He follows their gaze and finds himself face to face with another Geoffrey Goddard. Devlin's eyes are half human and half wolf, more the latter then Harry remembers them being, but Geoffrey's are entirely amber. He stares into them with fascination. There is something strange in the eyes, something which does not belong.

"_Why do you stare at me, so afraid and so uncertain?"_ Devlin has answered his unasked question. There is fear in Geoffrey's too-wolf eyes. Fear a wolf should not have. Fear that is too-human. It is always fear, cold, haunting, and crystal clear, which makes Harry realize how human others are. He hates it when Death Eaters show that kind of fear. Hates it because he knows he needs it; he has to remember that humans make mistakes.

Voldemort is not human because Harry has never seen him afraid.

"_The Dark Lord has assigned me to be your guard. This is why I stare at you."_ Geoffrey's voice is neutral. Harry knows that voice; it is the voice of realization: the understanding that there is no right or wrong way to deal with the current situation. It is, he knows, a painful realization.

"_That's smart of you, Geoffrey."_ The boy turns back to the book; Harry has watched the boy read from the time he merely commanded the foreign words into his own stories. He knows the boy is only hiding behind the pages. Geoffrey, seated far across from him, fiddles with his wand. His mouth opens and closes.

"_I don't understand, Dubhán."_ Geoffrey is a man clutching at many fragile hopes. He wonders what he hopes to accomplish by trying to understand the child's words.

"_It's smart of you not to tell the truth, or to lie. Lying earns trouble, but the truth wouldn't do you much better, either. It's smart of you to choose something else, then. People can tell when your lying or telling the truth, but can't be certain when you're doing neither."_ The words make him swallow hard. They are not words Voldemort has taught him. They are not words pain has taught him, although pain might have reinforced them. They are words his own father told him. Never lie. Never tell the truth. Never, ever, tell someone what they ought not know.

It had been less then a year after he had been bitten and Devlin had just begun to understand the differences between him and others. Specifically that he could hear far better than a normal human. He had taken up eavesdropping and Harry, tired and forgetful, had not remembered to put a silencing charm around his study one night. No matter what the other Order Members had suggested, Harry had never been able to bring himself to even do so much as consider _Obliviating _his own son.

Now he hears the words and wonders about their implication. People torture for information and don't stop until they get it. He watches the boy turn back to his book and hopes beyond hope that Devlin forgot the rules to their little game.

_Green and gold swirl and transports them into another memory. _

He focuses immediately on the green and gold eyes once more. There is a power, a control, which surrounds Devlin, even in the Pensieve; it is not the aura of anger and power that surrounds Voldemort, or the withholding, almost shy, power that wraps around Harry and rarely reveals itself in full. No, it is somehow different; it surrounds the boy and seems to reflect off of him - a mirror reflecting back an illusion of calmness and certainty. But it cannot be real. No child is that calm and composed in front of a monster. And Voldemort is a monster.

Voldemort, clad in black robes and his red eyes shining from his thin face, takes a step toward Devlin. Harry admires Devlin's control, focus, calculation, and strength. He doesn't flinch when Voldemort's hand reaches forward and tips his chin up.

"_You look better. The Healer assures me you'll make a full recovery."_ The hand leaves the child and Harry feels a superficial sense of relief.

"_Yes, Voldemort."_ He speaks in a plain, flat, emotionless voice, but something sparks in his and Voldemort's eyes. As if the brief reply had held some silent taunt. Voldemort clenches his jaw. He looks angry. Harry takes a step forward, even as his brain tells him how useful it will be. He is in a memory.

"_We have discussed this before, Dubhán; I have asked that you call me Grandfather."_ The underlying tone hints it will not be a request, next time.

"_I'm sorry."_ Harry clutches at Ron's shoulder; it's all he can do to stop himself from rushing forward and trying to gather the untouchable child in his arms. What does Devlin have to be sorry for? The words remind him of his own childhood. Anger rushes and grows in him. He feels rather then notices as Ron's hand comes to rest on his own shoulder. It is far to close to the collar of his shirt to be anything but a preemptive restraint. _"Grandfather."_

The words leave the child's lips and Harry looses control. Ron's hand grabs tightly at his shirt and adds pressure to his already burning throat. He stops and shakes himself. Ron does not release him.

"I can stop it, but there is only one more left. It depends on your tastes whether it is worse or not." Ron looks about to call a stop to the showing.

"If you dare stop it, Goddard, I'll use my position to justify the unforgivables." Part of him knows he wouldn't dare, but the other part knows he could get away with it. He's Head Auror, second only to the Minister of Magic (a position, like Dumbledore, he refused).

He stares expectantly before him, noting the werewolf's frown from the corner of his eyes.

_The frozen image before them swirls and blends into another. _

Devlin is at least six and something and, for once, looks at peace. This does nothing to comfort him.

"So much color and lack of fearfulness – to what do the Death Eater owe the reprieve?" Harry would have simply asked what the hell they were looking at. Dumbledore takes a step toward the long table (most likely several pushed together). It seats at least a hundred guests, all Death Eaters. Harry does not include Voldemort in this count; Voldemort is not a Death Eater. Nor does he include the child, who he hopes, with every magical bead of energy in him, is not branded.

"Dubhán's seventh birthday." Devlin's eyes are closed and his small frame curled between Voldemort's arms at the head of the table. Anger wants him to turn away; parental protection won't allow it. He watches with the strange mixture of emotions as Voldemort's spidery hand cards its way through Devlin's hair.

"Devlin was born in the winter – unless Voldemort has magicked the-"

"I said Dubhán, not Devlin, Mr. Potter." He turns slowly to face the not-so-long-ago Death Eater turned informant.

He glares. Goddard does not glare back.

"Devlin was a little boy who had been raised without fear – Devlin died the moment he was stood in front of Voldemort." The 'v' sticks to his tongue and threatens to come out as Dubhán. "I told you beforehand that I could not say the name. Devlin died and the moment I pronounced his name differently he clung to it."

They are spun into blackness and then out of the pensive entirely.__

"Like all new knowledge, the questions it answers lead only to uncertain beginning." Which was Dumbledore's way of saying "this brings up more question then it answers". Harry grins despite himself. The game of translating Dumbledore's elegant speech into common English had been the only good thing he had learned from Snape. He had gotten a glimpse of the Potion Master's coping skill during an Occlumency 'warm-up' and sunk low enough into boredom at a later occasion to use it. He admits to himself that he is now addicted. "I think we ought, Harry, to wait a moment before asking them."

Harry shakes himself back into reality in order to protest. Stop? How can they stop now? They should be making a plan to get Devlin out of there!

"I do think Alexandra would be upset if she were not made aware of this, Harry." He stops the internal rant. Dumbledore is right.

"Yeah, I'd better tell her." Geoffrey can hear the restless murmur of a child in his mind. He knows that name. Dubhán had often whispered it in his dreams. Geoffrey refuses to remember the one and only time he had screamed it.

"Who is this Alexandra?" He breaks away from the memory's grasp and into reality. Geoffrey has a feeling, in the pit of his stomach, just who this Alexandra is. Potter ignores him, shooting him another glare, but Geoffrey _needs_ to know. "Is she Dubhán's mother?" Potter's green eyes swerve to regard him.

"Yes, she is," he says sharply, punctuating the words by turning on his heel and striding toward the fireplace. Foolish, human, believing words and movements will dispel the memories. He had expected better of Potter. "I'll just call her, she should be home today."

He whispers the name of the house beneath his breath: Geoffrey suspects the aid of a few silencing charms. At least he has the sense to protect his Floo connection.

"Harry!" The voice is both quick and calming. "What are you calling for?"

"Where's Emma, Alex?" Across the fire, Alexandra Potter's face falls. He asks it as if he is worried she will overhear. As if someone has died. All she can think of is the late night call from his office about their son. Their son's body. Limp, cold, and dead. Harry has the same look now that he did then.

"She's with Hermione; they've gone shopping." She doesn't wink and mention it is for her own birthday. "Why?" She holds her breath, waiting for the worst.

"You have to understand it is tentative." Harry is always so afraid to get hopeful over anything, she reassures him with a nod. "We're still investigating the matter and-"

"Who is it about, Harry?" She needs to know and he needs to stop beating his very soul into the ground.

"Devlin. We have news on Devlin. I need you to come to Dumbledore's office. We think he may-" Potter never gets to finish.


	3. The Mother Wolf

**I know I'm publishing the first couple chapters fairly quickly, but a review would be great. :) *hint, hint* **

**Once more, I own nothing from the Harry Potter series. **

**Chapter Three – A Mother Wolf**

Years of Flooing to Auror and Order assignments keep both of them on their feet as Alexandra comes rushing through the connection.

"What news?" She manages to gasp out. Her voice is tight and her hand, grasping onto the back of Geoffrey's chair, is shaking. She hasn't yet noticed the chairs occupant, her attention is all for her husband.

"What news, Harry?" Potter seems reluctant and now her voice is firm and unrelenting. "Tell me what new." She demands, before Potter has even had the chance to form his answer. Geoffrey feels a twitch of pity for Potter.

"I would be the source, Mrs. Potter." She spins around to peer down at him in the chair.

"And you are?" She asks, voice lacking the concern and desperation it had held moments before. Geoffrey has always wondered from whom Dubhán had inherited his quick composure.

"Geoffrey Goddard. I'd shake your hand..." He leans forward in his chair, showing the binding. "But they are not at my mercy." She regards him for a moment. Geoffrey feels as if she is summing him up: his worth, his honesty, his age, his health- everything, in that one look. And apparently he doesn't pass. She turns from him in favor of Dumbledore, dismissing him with as little concern as possible. He doesn't hear her conversation with Dumbledore – he is far too preoccupied by one of his own. A distant, vague, memory that had not been listened to or thought about in many years, is spinning freely and uncontrollable in his mind.

"Did you hear me, or have they already given you too much truth serum?" His eyes snap to hers. Potter murmurs something in the background about not giving him any such thing, but Alexandra is not listening to him. Her attention is only for him. He'd rather it went back to where it had been before.

"My apologies, Madam; my mind was elsewhere." A glare, filled with contempt, presents itself on her features. Geoffrey is reminded of someone else, but he will not speak who he is reminded of aloud, let alone in his head.

"Where would that be?" Her cream colored skirt and white blouse no longer suite her; she is an Auror again, an investigator, a fighter, and her wrath has been turned to him.

"Distant memories." Her jaw clenches slightly.

"You'll have to be far more specific with me, Mr. Goddard." There is a cold edge to her voice and Geoffrey knows that path will not take him any further. He decides to veer sharply.

"On distant memories, brought on by similarities you share with your son." He is dancing upon a thin line of truth and lie; she does look remarkably like Dubhán, but mere appearance would not have provoked such a strong dream-state. She _smells_like him. The comment extracts its desired pause and willingness to discard the topic. He has her interested.

"They said the Pensieve images look just like him, but Voldemort is a skilled wizard; he could easily create a look-alike boy. We have Devlin's body." She is seeking information from him in the form of a challenge. She thinks he will be more willing to betray Voldemort if she is calling him stupid. Of course Voldemort could create a look-alike. A Doppler. But he could also create a look-alike body. He says as much to her.

"If he is skilled enough to create a living boy, could he not create a dead one? A mere body?" Is not pointing out a foreign notion to her, but he is speaking it aloud. She inhales sharply. Geoffrey can see the limp body Voldemort sent them in her eyes, the tombstone they buried it under, her pain as she watches the casket float down into the ground, and her guilt as she realizes she may have given up on her son. There is hesitation too; hesitation to see truth in Geoffrey's claim and find herself in the same place of pain. Fear for Geoffrey to be wrong and her to have believed him.

"_I _have to see him," she says, leaning against the Headmaster's desk and looking him straight in the eye. She reaches toward the Pensieve. Whether she knows he's a werewolf, whether she understands what she is saying to him, Geoffrey does not know, all he knows is that she is the Alpha. She is not unendingly friendly. She is not uncertain. She knows she is powerful and she knows he knows she is powerful. He decides then and there that Potter is his new Master, because she is an Alpha and her mate is Potter. For a moment it all makes sense, then he remembers what is _in_ the Pensieve. He cringes.

"No!" Dubhán would not want her to see what he had showed Potter, Weasley, and Dumbledore.

She turns sharply to him, her lips tight and eyes narrowed. She is waiting for him to continue, no matter how impatient she appears.

"I'd like to put a different one in for you." She manages, somehow, to glare without shifting a muscle. She is not someone who likes to be treated differently or have things hidden from her. But she is also careful and cautious and after her eyes linger in his, she changes her mind. She steps away from the Pensieve.

Geoffrey finds himself at wand point for the seventh, no eighth, time that day.

"_I wonder, Dubhán, if you read these books to listen to the words or to allow yourself an…escape, with an excuse to be silent and oblivious to your surroundings." _It is clear that they have entered into the middle of some fight. Alexandra waits for it to explain itself, while she stares in fascination at the small child, perhaps six or so. His hands are clenched at his sides and he is staring defiantly up at an older man, green eyes and jet-black hair that almost matches Harry's own except it is going grey. She doesn't know the man and takes a moment to remember his features. There is a heavy book in one of his own and he holds it up, gesturing with it. Alexandra agrees; it would turn most children running.

"_Which is it, Dubhán?" _There is a smoldering impatience to the man's voice. Alexandra frowns when Devlin growls lowly, jutting out his jaw in stubbornness. His eyes, she notices for the first time, shine the distinct color of a feral werewolf.

"_You can't take her from me!"_ He says softly, powerfully, stone cold and emotionless. Alexandra is witnessing the transition between Devlin and Dubhán: the between stages of childhood and survival. She doesn't, of course, know this, but she will later. _"She'll always be my mother." _

The memory spins around her and Alexandra finds herself leaning on the desk, not for appearance, but for true support. She closes her eyes in an attempt to collect herself.

"Thank you," she says to Geoffrey, opening her eyes and smiling slightly at him. It is such a shadowed smile. It reminds him of Dubhán. "Do you know him well?" Beneath the truth of her thanks is a game she has no problem, or difficulty, playing. The same one Geoffrey had played on her and Potter. She will string this concerned, pleased, parent persona along for as a long as it works.

"I do. I am his Guard; I spend nearly all day, every day, with him."

Near a bed, quilted in greens and blues, a bookshelf, filled from top to bottom, a desk, laden with parchments, quills and ink, and a soft warm chair, a small figure is pacing. Seven steps to his right and seven to the left. His raven hair is disheveled, perhaps due to the fact that he woke up and discovered something missing. _Someone_ missing.

This person is not at the Barracks (the sleeping quarters for Death Eaters), or in the room next to his own that he often occupies when Dubhán might otherwise be sleeping alone in the magical tent that serves as his home.

His green eyes swerve to the clock over his desk, wanting nothing more then to move the hands forward manually and for that to change the _real_ time. Despite his frustration with it, his eyes linger on the time. It is the only thing on his mind.

'I will be in an important meeting from the evening until midnight; you are not to come to me between those times. Go to Geoffrey if you must see someone. I have arranged for him to remain at the Base all day.' Those had been his Grandfather's parting words to him after lunch. Rules he knew he could not break. Yet Geoffrey was not watching him or anywhere at the Base. He was gone.

This missing link might propel some children to think the rule had thus become null but, even if this should be so, Dubhán is not the kind of child to push his luck. He tries seating himself on his bed, but cannot stay still for long. He can feel a headache building.

A blue potion bottle regards him from across the room in an accusatory way. If he has a headache, he should take the potion. It's what he's supposed to do. But he doesn't. He scowls at it instead and tucks his hands under himself.

It is only an hour until his Grandfather comes back...


	4. The Trick

**I want to give big thanks to the one reviewer. As a writer I'm not dependant on reviews. This story is in my head, so I write it down. But I also admit it would be nice to know if you liked this story (or really hated it, either way). I mean, there are have been over 200 unique visitors to this story, but only one of you reviewed. Surely this statistics aren't that bad! Surely more then one of you has an opinion of this story? So please leave a review! **

**I changed some things up in this chapter, so I may have to edit it one last time before I'm totally happy with it. Still, I ran spell check and gave it a read over, so it should be fine grammatically speaking. If you see any mistakes, please let me know. **

**ETA: Apparently I didn't hit "save" when I re-added the scene brakes. Sorry about that. All fixed now. :)  
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**Hope you enjoy! **

Chapter Four: The Trick

"You have to get him out of there." Geoffrey sighed. "Or we'll send in our own fleet." Perhaps Potter was not as nearsighted as Geoffrey had imagined. He had seen Geoffrey's true fear, Geoffrey's protectiveness of Dubhán. Perhaps he was even aware of why Geoffrey was so protective; perhaps he was familiar with Werewolf culture. Whether Potter knew that much about Werewolves or not, Geoffrey found himself reacting as if he did; he tipped his head up, exposing his neck, as he answered. The act of understanding and submission went right over Potter's head.

"Very well. Give me a week; I think the Dark Lord has an operation he is attending in the next few days." Potter looked disgusted that Dubhán would be in the environment for many more _seconds,_ but ended up nodding. "And then give me a twenty four hour period after that week to get him to you. I can't Apparate with him out of the camp; it would notify the Dark Lord."

SCENE BREAK

He was exhausted and still pacing, when a hand, at last, landed on his shoulder. Instantly, he knew it was not his Grandfather. It was Geoffrey. Only Geoffrey laid his hand down with such a human weight to it. Grandfather, when he was not angry, touched him as if were a china doll of great expense. He turned around. He wanted to hug the man, but found himself beating his fits onto Geoffrey's chest instead.

"You left me here alone!" He said, aware that anger kept the more dangerous emotions at bay, and intending, for as long as he could, to keep that anger boiling. Geoffrey said nothing, nor did anything to stop him; he lifted the child up and put him, standing him on his bed, so that they were eye to eye. Something in his eyes stopped the child.

"I wont do anything to stop you Dubhán; you've every right to be angry with me." But his anger had slinked away already and he could not grab hold of it again.

"Where were you?" He asked instead, fixing Geoffrey with a challenging stare. Geoffrey kept Dubhán's gaze for a moment, but only a moment.

"I cannot tell you." Dubhán growled.

"Grandfather promised he would not send you anywhere tonight." Geoffrey wished he could let the child continue to shift the blame, but he cannot. If Dubhán blamed The Dark Lord, he would comment to him. The Dark Lord's awareness of his absence was to be avoided at all costs.

"Your Grandfather did no such thing. I betrayed his orders to stay here with you." Dark and curious, Dubhán's eyes turned on him.

"But you cannot tell me?" Geoffrey shook his head slowly, waiting with baited breath. "Are you asking me to keep a secret, Geoffrey?" His tone is light and friendly. If it had come from anyone else, Geoffrey would have shaken his head and replied with a quiet, negative, demur. Coming from Dubhán, Geoffrey knew it might be a game – a bait to expose his nervousness. Geoffrey nodded.

Moment's passed in silence. "I had a nightmare...will you stay with me?" Geoffrey nodded again, fearful that the child had not given him any firm answer, yet unwilling to seem as such. Geoffrey seated himself on the edge of the child's bed and watched him quietly. A small hand, warm from the blankets, laid itself on top of his. "I won't tell him, Geoffrey." Geoffrey smiled softly and took his hand, brushing the tiny fingers as the boy fell into slumber.

When Dubhán's breath had settled and he was firmly asleep, Geoffrey drew himself up and moved to the chair near the bed. Now he only had to wait for Voldemort, and hope, beyond anything, that his Master was not able to sense betrayal like Geoffrey could fear. It was dark and silent; the perfect atmosphere for brooding about his potential treason. He was traitor; he had taken the step from consideration to action. He found no pride in it, as he might have expected, only cold, dead, fear.

What would Dubhán think of him? He could picture the child yelling, screaming, fighting back tears he never allowed to fall and then turning his eyes upon him. Those eyes would not be filled with hate, not with fright, nor even desperation but rather, disappointment. He had trusted, he _trusts_, him. He would loose the only person who had never hurt him, since his arrival.

He wondered, in the child's mind, if he blamed his father, the great Harry Potter, for not coming and getting him, or his mother, the one who tucked him in and kissed his forehead, for forgetting him. He wondered if he remembered either of his parents beyond vague sensations. He wondered what Potter would think of a child who had only stepped on a broom in a trial practice of escape from _his_men.

He wondered what both parents would think of a child who despised their very jobs. He wondered and pondered and brooded so hard and so long, that he didn't notice, half an hour later, the door to the room open and spread a sliver of light onto the bed, and onto his chair.

The Dark Lords face came into view. His eyes, crimson like coals that had succumbed to flames, found Geoffrey in the chair. This was Voldemort, not Tom; Voldemort who only hid himself from one person, and he must have known that person was asleep. For a moment, as he stared at the child, his eyes softened and turned a murky green.

"I did not expect you to be in here, Geoffrey." Geoffrey rose slowly from the chair, walking into the hallway as the Dark Lord held the door open.

"Dubhán had a nightmare." Voldemort's eyes went again to the child, visible through the slightly ajar door and then returned to Geoffrey.

"Did he speak about its contents with you?" Geoffrey shook his head. Again, those crimson eyes traveled to the black hair and pale skin hidden under a downy blanket.

"I see..." He closed the door carefully. "You may go then." Geoffrey nodded quickly, swiftly walking down the short hallway and to the front door. He would sleep in the Barracks tonight; he had a sense that his Master wanted him nowhere _near _that building.

SCENE BREAK

"Morning Geoffrey." This was Dubhán's constant greeting every morning. It had only changed once in the four years Geoffrey knew him, and that was the curtailing of 'good'.

"Good morning, Dubhán." He watched the child button up his dress shirt and come over to the bed to tie his shoes. "Why are you so dressed up today?" Dubhán glanced at him, blinking twice.

"There is no need for school clothes today, my tutors are all apparently busy today, all day. I suppose Grandfather is holding an important meeting."

"I see. What do you plan to do, then?"

"Wait until lunch, when I will attempt to have Grandfather see my side of the argument about visiting the book store."

"He has told you it is alright to interrupt his meeting?" Geoffrey did not want to turn up on Voldemort's bad side.

"No. He didn't say anything about such matters. He left a note that said he, and my tutors, would be in a meeting all day long." He finished off the laces, a perfect bow. "Besides, the Guard's will scowl at us and lift their wands if I am not permitted." He managed to say this without sounding put upon.

"Why do you wish to visit the book store?" He looked around the child's many, cramped, bookshelves for emphasis.

"I've run out of books."

"You've finished reading them, you mean? You can't have run out of them," he sweeps his hand across the direction of the whole wall bookcase, "you have at least a hundred."

"Yes well, I've finished reading them all..._twice_. I could even, dear Geoffrey, recite quite a few, if you like. What do you think of William Swautherd's Philosophy of Magical Origin. I know up to page 342." He took a deep breath before Geoffrey could stop him. "Magic is a manifestation of energy which the mind gives a certain-"

"Yes, I believe you. I rather think I would not like you to prove it." Geoffrey, trained from a young man to think strategically, could not help but notice that leaving the base by Dubhán's own wish, would be the best opportunity. It would also, however, mark him as clear as blood on his palms, as a traitor. Potter had made no promise to keep _him _safe.

"You know I would never lie to you." There is a self-satisfied smile on Dubhán's face. It is not a real smile, though.

"Do you believe he will allow it on such short notice?"

"Of course not, Geoffrey. My Grandfather likes to arrange things. It will be a few days. I do, however, have to ask sometime." He shrugged on a clean-lined black robe, classic against the deep green (almost black itself) shirt, as being of Slytherin house. Dubhán was dressing for the occasion; he was manipulating Voldemort.

"I told your Grandfather you had a nightmare last night, when he asked me why I was sitting with you." Dubhán regarded him with a raised, knitted, brow. "I thought you ought to be aware." He did not ask if was alright – he knew better. He was still playing as if nothing had happened, and it was his job to tell The Dark Lord such things.

"Thank you for telling me."

"We never discuss your dreams, Dubhán, but we both know they are painful; what does Voldemort think you are dreaming of?" Dubhán looked away, lifting to his feet and tucking his green-chain necklace under his shirt.

"Some secrets are better left unsaid." He strode to the door and laid his hand on it. "Are you coming, or shall I speak to him alone?" Geoffrey rose and left the room with him.

SCENE BREAK

"Harry!" Harry Potter spun around the hallway, meeting Hermione Granger's gaze. He should have expected her to be early, should have known he would not even get the chance to step into his office, when he had asked her to come see him at work. "Harry, are you alright?" She was not asking the question as one friend might to another; she was concerned for him.

He blinked.

That had not been what he had expected her to ask first. "I am; why do you ask?" Her eyes glazed over, as if she were debating whether she should really answer, or if she should, could, go on as if she had never asked.

"You never speak about Dubhán unless it's his birthday; and then Ron is dragging you home drunk." Harry took her hand and they began to walk to his office. He did not know who to respond to that, he wanted to forget those nights, wanted to pretend, for certain, that they would never happen again. He wanted to imagine he wasn't worried Voldemort would somehow get the information that he knew about Devlin and decide to kill his son.

"Has Ron spoken to you?" She narrowed her eyes, now seated in front of his desk.

"No. I asked him to lunch and he said he couldn't leave the office, so I asked him to dinner, and he said he couldn't leave the office. What is going on, Harry?" So he told her, and even his somber concerns could not keep the smile from his face as he told her his son was alive.

SCENE BREAK

"Goodnight Emma," Harry whispers when he comes home late that night. The girl is already asleep, but Harry places a gentle kiss onto her forehead and stares at her for a minute. Sometimes when he sees her so safe and relaxed he can't help but think of that horrible night. He shakes his head, trying to dispel the image of her little baby face screaming and her hands clinging desperately to Alex's neck and the Death Eater's wands pointed at both of them.

He closes the door softly, trying once more to dispel the memory. Out in the hallway he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Without really thinking he walks down the hallway and opens a different door.

It is painted in blues and greens. On the walls are flying brooms and cartoon creatures. On the bed are stuffed animals. He sits down on the bed and reaches for a stuffed Wolf that Remus had gotten Devlin for his fourth birthday. He holds it close to him.

He often comes in here to sit and think and cry, but today he looks around thinking something different: this room is so _little_. Would Devlin still like racing brooms zooming on his walls? What about that teddy bear over there? What about the toy dragons?

The pitter patter of feet make him look up. Zee is sitting at the door, wagging his tail.

"Hi boy," he says, his voice hoarse from crying. The dog whimpers softly. He knows this room. He used to sleep here every night. It had been Hermione's idea to get Devlin a dog when, after the attack, he hadn't been able to sleep alone at all. Zee had been perfect and they had quickly become inseparable.

The dog wandered over and climbed quietly onto the bed next to Harry. He was five now.

"He's going to come home soon," Harry whispers to the dog, patting its head. "But you can't be upset if he doesn't remember you at first or pretends not to like you, okay boy?" The dog tilts it's head and whines again. After a while Harry gets up to go to bed, but no matter how much he call's Zee, the dog won't move.

"I know, you miss him too. You can sleep here." And Harry does something he hasn't done in years – he leaves Devlin's door open, because it doesn't seem like such a shrine anymore. Its owner will be coming back.

SCENE BREAK

"Wednesday we're going to the bookstore," Dubhán says over his shoulder. He has come into the Barracks eating area and the other werewolves that Geoffrey is eating with look up and smile and say quick 'hellos'.

"Can I see the slip?" Dubhán hands over a piece of paper outlining the scheduled event and signed with Voldemort's script. Geoffrey nods and puts it in his pocket.

"Did you already eat?" Dubhán shakes his head, so Geoffrey scoots over and makes room for him. The other werewolves rustle his hair and pat him on the back as they pass. Some even tease him and tell him they'll bite his tail if he bites their ears again on the next Moon-day. Geoffrey doesn't think Potter could ever imagine Death Eaters treating his son like this. '_We don't think of him as Potter's son,'_ Geoffrey thinks to himself as he watches Dubhán eat some eggs, '_we just think of him as _**ours**._ He's part of our pack.' _Geoffrey looked around the table and realized that Wednesday morning would be the last breakfast he shared with **his** pack.

**_Please review!_ **


	5. Dubhán, not Devlin

**A/N: I took out a bit that seemed silly now that I look back on it, so this chapter is a little shorter than I expected, but I like this ending so *shrug* it is what it is. I think I can safely post a couple snippets of Dubhán and Voldemort interactions soon (I wanted you to get to know Dubhán a little beforehand). Look for it after the publishing of Chapter 6 and you probably want to read chapter 6 first too. **

**Please review! Again, I have over 200 unique visitors to this story, 5 chapters, and 1 review. I don't _need_ reviews and I _won't_ withhold an update because I didn't get them but they are nice. :)  
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****_On with the story: _

**Geoffrey feels as if he has accomplished the impossible:** he is in two places at once. He is split between a person who is smiling and carrying on a conversation with Dubhán as he brings book after book to him and explains his interest in it, and the person who knows it is only a matter of hours, minutes and seconds before he will never see that smile again.

Geoffrey claws desperately at the ground (his last remaining rope) as he moves over to the register to purchase the books. Dubhán is beaming at his side as the shopkeeper rings up the items.

"Are all of those yours, son, or do you have an older sibling going to school?" The shopkeeper asks as he bags and shrinks the books. Dubhán shakes his head.

"All mine sir. I like to read." The man nods knowingly.

"I can see that. Well you take good care of yourself and the books."

"Of course, sir. Thank you sir." Dubhán says, tucking the package carefully into his pocket, and running over to meet Geoffrey at the door.

Geoffrey cannot help but cave into the child's wish for ice cream, not today. He indulges the child with double servings and they talk pleasantly, carefree, about the books he has purchased. Geoffrey knows it will be their last conversation like this.

"I can't wait to read that one on the Philosophy of Magic. Actually, I got a few on that topic, because it's supposed to vary, and I want to get an idea of it from all angles. Where do you think magic originated from?" Geoffrey shakes his head in amusement.

"I wouldn't even attempt to answer that question, Dubhán. You will have to ask your grandfather." Dubhán looks disappointed from a second, but then brightens, moving onto his next subjects of books: potions.

A **certain tenseness always accompanies the act of Apparition**; the muscles tighten as if they can hold each other together by sheer strength and hands grasp for anything to anchor them. This was not, however, the kind of tension Geoffrey felt Dubhán experience as he opened his eyes not to the camp, but to an office.

"Geoffrey, I think we made a wrong turn, better get out of here before someone notices." Geoffrey swallows, feeling his own muscles tense in anticipation of what is to come.

"Hold on Dubhán." He relaxes for a moment, convinced, perhaps mislead, that Geoffrey is regaining the energy to transport them.

Mere moments later, the door opens. Dubhán, still facing Geoffrey, can't see who is coming into the office, but Geoffrey can. Harry Potter. The Auror's attention is focused on a report in his hands and he manages to close his door and sit behind his desk before he noticed either of them. Then he looks up.

The papers fly into the air as Potter jumps in surprise and land on the ground in front of his desk. Habit leads him to cast silencing and locking spells across the whole room. When he's finished, he simply stands there, looking shocked. Geoffrey is unimpressed. Dubhán is shaking against him.

"Hello." Geoffrey says. Dubhán turns around and then shrinks back into Geoffrey, even though Geoffrey seems to know the man.

"Geoffrey," he whispers urgently, "get us out of here. He's an _Auror!_"

"Is that him?" The man whispers hoarsely, taking a shaking step forward, hand held out like a blind mans cane.

"This is Dubhán." Geoffrey answers careful, taking a step away from Potter as he feels the small body shake against him. He gives Potter a significant glance, and then Geoffrey moves so that he has Dubhán's shoulders in his grasp and is looking in his eyes. "I had to do this, Dubhán. I could never hurt you. This isn't meant to hurt you, this is meant to protect you."

"Take me home Geoffrey." His tone is cold and demanding, a perfect replication of Voldemort's. Geoffrey shakes his head.

"I can't Dubhán." He says, moving his hands awkwardly across the small, tense, shoulders in a familiar motion to calm the boy. Today, it helps none. "I can't." Those eyes turn cold now, surging with anger.

"Take me home Geoffrey." This is an order. Voldemort would have followed with a painful dose of the Cruciatus Curse, but even had Dubhán the wand and knowledge about how to perform such a spell, he would not have cast it. He detests the spell.

"Do you remember, Dubhán, when you asked me how to make Voldemort happy?" Dubhán shakes his head. Geoffrey is clearly a traitor, but he is also the only person in this room that Dubhán knows. Therefore, despite Dubhán's best efforts to feel otherwise, he can't help the tiny part that still wants Geoffrey's quiet guidance and reassurance.

"I told you: "you do what you are told"." Geoffrey's eyes looks so sad, Dubhán looks away. "And you are such a smart, clever boy, Dubhán. You survived where no other little boy would, or should. You shouldn't need to always worry about what you're saying or doing or whether you said something with just the right tone of voice – it isn't healthy. I cannot see a child in you, Dubhán, and every person must be a child first. It is not right for him to take that away from you." Dubhán's eyes brim with tears; tears he will not allow to fall.

"Take me home Geoffrey, and I promise, I won't tell him. Everyone makes mistakes... just take me home."

"I have Dubhán."

"No! NO, take me back to grandfather, Geoffrey! You can't do this too me! You can't! You're supposed to take _care_ of me! I don't like this! I don't _feel _good here! You can't do this! You can't! You can't! You can't! You can't!" The tears clung defiantly to his eyes, but that didn't stop the whimpers and pleading regard. Geoffrey did nothing to stop the accusations, merely waits for the small child to wane into silence.

"Oh, Dubhán, you are confusing tactics. I love you. I, all of Voldemort's werewolves, adopted you into our pack, but I am not your creator. I am a volunteer to that position. Those words hurt me, they hurt me beyond any pain I can ever feel, but...they do not wake my wolf. I am still Geoffrey. Even my wolf is capable of weighing safety over your discomfort." He lifted one of the child's hands to his breast. "You are my pup _here_, not by blood. They are the same in every aspect, except the one you wish to exploit." Dubhán growls lowly, hunching his shoulders slightly, lifting his gaze to stare into Geoffrey's eyes. Dubhán had known, below his fear and desperation, that the tactic would not work. For Geoffrey to betray him the way he has, even his wolf must agree.

Dubhán knows many inappropriate words, a child that has lived in his surroundings cannot help but hear them, and so long as he does not say them, his Grandfather hardly cares that he _knows _them. The word he has chosen to say, however, is not inappropriate, quite to the contrary, he has chosen to use _this_ word because of its appropriate_ness_: _"Traitor!"  
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Geoffrey finally looks away, finally slumps into one of the chairs; finally lowers himself of his high rank and claims Dubhán the winner. Dubhán does not care, he does not want to win anything; he wants to go home, to feel _safe_.

"I've brought him here, what else to do you want of me, Potter?" Dubhán does not read papers or recent History books, he does not know what Harry Potter looks like, does not want to remember that he did know the man once. Geoffrey's words mean volumes to him, and he backs against one of the office walls.

"You're going to kill me!" He is aware of his position in the room, of its susceptibility to traps, his also aware of its advantage. He pushes his palms slightly against the wall behind him, unnoticeable to the people in front of him, and prepares for attack. Geoffrey is his only disadvantage: Geoffrey who has watched and assisted in his training, Geoffrey who can warn Potter.

"I want you to tell him I'm not going to kill him!" Potter tone and hitch tells Dubhán that he is genuinely hurt by Dubhán's statement, yet Dubhán feels no need to allow that to effect his opinion, even though he knows there are few who can fool his instincts.

"He won't believe me." Geoffrey covered his eyes with a hand, slumping in the chair and looking pale and sickly. Potter glares at Geoffrey, who takes his hand away, and, lifting his eyebrows and looking toward Dubhán again, says: "He won't kill you." His words are bland and untasteful: he says them because he has been asked to not because he thinks Dubhán will consider them. He is a traitor. A moment passes between Geoffrey's words and all other silence. Dubhán tries to reign in his thundering thoughts.

"_What is rescue to you, Mr. Potter, may be kidnapping to Dubhán"_ _"You're going to kill me!"_ He tried to rid his mind of the voices, voices that itched and clawed like those of Voldemort_. _

Silence, a fist closing around his throat, engulfed the office. An emptiness that has always been present in him, since the first time he can remember his Aunt calling him a freak, creeps under his skin. He knows each curve, each sinking hole, of this emptiness, yet he is always amazed how it grows and contracts, how each time he confronts it, it has changed.

"Devlin..." His throat is hot and constricted.

"My name is Dubhán." Harry cannot draw his gaze away from those cold eyes; he forces his eyes shut to avoid this weakness.

"Dubhán," It hurts so much to say that name, to surrender the other one, the one that represented the child he had known. "I am your father, I won't hurt you."

"Where is the proof? Where are the files?" He narrows his eyes; eyes that are haunted by the truth he knows and the determination to turn away. He wants to crush the truth into ash and blow it away with the wind. Yet fear, instead of sending him into a panic, heightens and focuses his senses. "What exactly to you wish to accomplish by kidnapping a child, Mr. Potter? I will not betray him, I will not betray Voldemort..." He pauses here; for the effect he knows silence builds.

Dubhán understand what he must do now. He lifts his head, like a lion showing its size, straightens his back and captures Harry Potter's green gaze in his own, like a huge snake preparing to strike. "Just as I did not betray you."


	6. Hurtful Words

A/N I am having a problem with saving my scene change strings. It doesn't like this **** or this ^^^^. We'll see if it puts them through this time. If it doesn't, I've made the first bit of every new scene bold text so that it will be understandable until I can fix it. :) **Also, the Devlin/Voldemort snippet is up.**

I wanted to send a "yay!" out to my second reviewer! So: YAY! :)

**"Let me help you with that." His voice is as smooth as the marble floors the woman has tripped on.** Her papers lay strewn across the marble. Still on the ground, she flicks her wrist slightly and the papers, even the ones in his hands, fly to her - neatly stacked, just as they had been before. She lifts herself up, ignoring the hand he offers her.

"I'm fine, thank you very much." Undeterred, he walks beside her as she makes her way down the hallway.

"I was looking to speak to Mr. Potter, would you know where he is?" She pauses for a moment, frowning as if running some kind of information through her mind, and then turns to glare at him.

"I do run my husband's schedule, Mr. Malfoy."

"Nor was I implying such. Would you know if he where in the office today, though, or is he stuck in traffic?" Her head snaps to his grey eyes, and once again, a scowl, deep and sharp, molds itself onto her face.

"He is out of the office today, I believe. I'm headed there right now, to drop off a case file, if I am mistaken I will send a paper to your office." He bowed his head slightly, a charming Malfoy-smile ever present on his face.

"Thank you, Mrs. Potter. Mr. Potter does seem to have a lot of big case files in his office, doesn't he?" This was not meant to be answered: it was a question designed for pleasant parting, and that is just what Draco Malfoy did, he turned gracefully from her and down another hallway in the Ministry building.

Alexandra quickened her steps...

**"No, but the ministry is considering the option of changing that form of the law to add more leeway-"** Hermione paused, catching site of red hair, which, once its length registered, meant Alexandra. She excused herself from the conversation and went over to her friend, who was leaning on a wall nearby with all the appearance of someone waiting patiently to talk to a friend. Alexandra's appearance often lied.

"We need to talk." She said softly.

"Okay." Alexandra and she often had Order _things_ or Ministry _things_ to discuss; her asking to speak with her triggered no alarms. Then Alexandra took hold of her arm and led her to an empty hallway space. Finally, not only trigger the alarms but, put them on full volume, she casts every silencing charm in existence, except for the one any semi-intelligent wizard knew had the side effect of deafness for those who tried to get past it.

"I think there is something go on in Harry's office…"

**He has hit the mark. It has, however, come at an expense:** he must remember the memory he refers to - a night in his life he would rather pretend had never happened. "You cannot do worse." He says, paying the bill for this comment too; trying hard to cling to the anger and fear that keeps his legs from failing him.

Potter is not sure what to do, Dubhán can smell the uncertainty, yet he finds the courage - Dubhán will call it what it is - to take a step forward, toward him. It is foolhardy, however, when he tries to reach a hand out to Dubhán.

"Its not a very well known fact, Mr. Potter, but as an Auror you should be aware of it: werewolves maintain some of their poison in human form." Harry closes his eyes, yet his hand remains were it was. Dubhán calls this bravery. His grandfather would say it is "bravery: Gryffindor style".

"I'm going to trust that you wont bite me, Dubhán." He inched forward again, like he was approaching a wild, wounded, animal.

"Didn't they teach you anything in training, Potter? You shouldn't trust anyone!" Dubhán threw his weight onto his palms, which had not moved from their position against the wall, and then quickly into his legs, kicking out at Potter before he knew what was happening.

It was only Potter's luck that his office door opened to admit two witches, one of which brandished a wand and spelled Dubhán frozen in the air, before she flicked her wrist and he was floated down to a chair, where he still could not move.

"What is going on here, Harry?" She gave Dubhán an appraising glance, as if she were looking for injuries, and when she found none, went over to Harry who was bent over in pain.

"Damn!" He leaned his bent back against the wall, arms wrapped around his stomach. Geoffrey did not move from his position, and Hermione only shut the door, standing stone-like in front of its closed surface.

"I didn't hit you _that_ hard." Dubhán mocked from his position, though he could not see Potter, and his mind was more on the witch at the door and the one behind him.

"I don't want to know what he thinks _is_ hard!" Potter coughed out, allowing Alexandra to cast a pain-relieving spell on him.

"You must keep in mind, Mr. Potter, that Dubhán is both a werewolf, which allows him to take more brute injuries and heal from them quickly, and is very talented at suppressing discomfort." Geoffrey said, looking at the boy in disappointment.

"I was referring to his tantrum."

**Nagini's head rises off of the floor, tongue flickering in and out like some kind of sonar.** Slowly, Voldemort looks up from the book he has been regarding and turns to his snake, and then to the door her eyes bore into. He smiles: "Draco, do come in."

There is no hesitancy in the hand that turns the knob, no pause in the footing; each is done in one fluid movement. Entering, he is as polished and primed as always, as calm in appearance and as willing to bow lowly to his master as any other day.

"He is with Potter, My Lord." He is intelligent, calculating; he needn't be told Voldemort's mood will not tolerate small talk.

"Do I have a traitor on my hands?" He asked, motioning for Malfoy to rise from his bow. He is a master of reading others; he wants to see Malfoy's eyes.

"I do not believe so, My Lord, but my calculations are nothing compared to yours." He is meticulously mannered in the way of speak to those below and, more so, above himself.

"I want them both alive." Voldemort holds up the book he had been reading for Draco to take. Draco does not stare at in confusion, he keeps his gaze with Voldemort, and waits for the explanation he knows will come. "When you first find him, I doubt you will be able to get him out. He was reading this book, make sure he gets it, and make sure you only fail to retrieve him that once."

"Yes, My Lord." He is alert, cunning; he never turns his back on Voldemort: he bows lowly and walks to the door. "I will do as you ask." He does not say he will do his best, or he will try; such weak assurances are useless, there only reward is punishment: he tells his Master that it _will_be done.

**Desires are worthless causes...in the end, they don't do anything helpful; in the end, they make things worse.** To desire to do something is to be crestfallen when that desire does not happen; Dubhán cannot risk such weaknesses. He learned this when he had wished to go home the last time, when, at the age of four, he had wanted his mother. It was only after he had thrown that desire away, labeled it impossible, and left it to the wind, that he had been able to think about survival.

It is harder when the woman is in front of him.

When she looks up from the letter she has finished to Dumbledore and the one she is beginning for another 'friend', and gives him a secret smile.

It is harder when she asks if he is all right.

It is hardest of all when she tells him everything will be all right.

"Nothing is ever alright," Dubhán whispers to her, and for a moment her secret cheer falters, and he can throw the desire away.

"Sometimes things change," she says, finishing the letters and walking behind him, to where he cannot turn, for he is still frozen, and sends the envelopes through the fire.

On her way back, she sends a slight glance at him, but then deems it better not to speak to him again, or flash him another secret smile, and walks over to Potter, and the brown haired witch who are talking together. Perhaps she thinks he does not want it; he will not ask for it.

Desires are best ignored; otherwise, you're only living for them.


	7. Fear Makes the World Spin

**A/N: I hope you guys don't mind the short-ish chapters, since I'm updating a whole lot. I work better this way, sometimes. :) I hope everyone enjoyed the "****Why Devlin Hates The Cruciatus Curse****" snippet. It might give you a clue to the ending of this chapter. In a couple chapters I'll be able to put up another snippet that shows the first time Devlin met Death Eaters (which was not the same time he was kidnapped) and the night he was bitten. **

Dubhán hears a jar opening, the sound of sand between fingertips, and the roar of fire.

"Albus?" Potter's voice, slightly muffled from his position in the flames, floats to Dubhán's ears. He swallows. Albus Dumbledore is to be feared, he knows. He is a powerful wizard, even grandfather admits to the fact. For the first time he truly feels his magical restraints and they begin to itch and burn as his anxiety increases.

"Yes, Harry?" Potter must have pulled his head out of the flames so the room at large could hear the conversation. Dubhán feels his heart quickening. The faster it beats the more panicked he becomes. He moves his eyes as far to the corner as he can to try and get Geoffrey's attention, but the man's hand is covering his face.

"We have Devlin," Potter says. "We'll take him home right away, but we're not sure what to do with Mr. Goddard."

"Bring him to me, I will situate him in one of Hogwarts private rooms. Have you alerted Lupin? He might be helpful in...transportation."

"I've ask him to come already, he'll be interrupting our fire chat as soon as he gets the letter." This is Alexandra's voice. His mum.

"Very good, very good. I'll send Ronald and another of our friends over to help with Geoffrey." There was a pause. "As much as I feel a certain desire to beg you, like an old relative, to see the boy, I will resist the urge."

"Then we'll start arranging for transport on our end," Potter said, ending the conversation. Dubhán's heart beats even faster. It was making him feel almost sick. They want to take him 'home'. He's not some stray puppy – he _has_ a home!

He can feel the blood flowing in his body. He can feel the panic spreading. _I'm trapped_, his body screamed. He hates feeling helpless. These thoughts fuel his anxiety, until that anxiety finds an outlet: magic. The magical bonds fall away and he can feel his limbs again. He stands up, feeling shaky and weak.

"I won't go anywhere with you," he says defiantly. Geoffrey is peering at him now, frowning ever to slightly.

"Devlin, sweetie, you don't look too good," The witch says, stepping towards him. He growls.

"Don't get near me, I'll hurt you."

"Then sit down and stop threatening people!" This is Alexandra and Dubhán finds himself following her directions. He should sit down anyways, he's all dizzy. He decides that's the only reason he listened. No one once acts surprised at his ability to break the spell. In fact, Alex is surprised he hadn't broken it earlier - he had always been good at hacking though locking charms as a little boy. 

**His eyes are a fawn brown; Geoffrey's are a light blue.**His eyes are drawn to Geoffrey's, who cannot hold back a slight, reverberating, growl. He frowns, silent and passive.

"You!" Geoffrey has lunged at the man, slamming him against the office wall, pressing his forearm against the man's throat. Dubhán scrambles from the chair he had reseated himself in, although he is at least five feet from the two men already, and toward the back wall. Geoffrey's eyes have gone pale amber; a level of anger Dubhán has never seen him have in human form.

"Don't even think of getting near him!" Geoffrey growls, and hardly cares that the man has made no move to fight back. Potter, Alexandra and Hermione, have though, throwing stunning spell one after another.

"That wont work." Dubhán says from behind them, and for once that day he is not lying, he is not mocking or taunting them, he is not manipulating or predicting an outcome; he is not angry. "Something has awakened his wolf."

Potter is frantic, pulling at his hair between spells, assuring Remus he'll be okay, to hold on, yelling at Geoffrey, screaming for Remus to fight back. "Come on Remus!" He says, sending another spell to Geoffrey's back.

"We don't know each other, you've mistaken me for some-" Geoffrey's arm against his throat stops the man from speaking further.

"To hell we don't!" Geoffrey's voice is as scathing as a scratch from his wolf claws would have been. "I shouldn't have brought him here! Not if they'll allow _you_ near him." Remus has gone pale, straining to look over his attackers shoulder and to the boy he has only just noticed. "I'll _kill_you with my bare hands!"

"Oh no you wont!" This is Potter – he is strengthening the potency of his spells, doubling their speed and notching up their aim. He is going for the kill, if he has too.

Behind him, Dubhán feels suddenly small, suddenly powerless. Part of him knows Geoffrey will die soon, at the hands of Voldemort, part of him wishes the man to die a less painful death, part of him wants to kill him himself. Welling up from its beaten place, some part of him cannot relinquish the friendship, the protection, and the care, which Geoffrey had given him. Part of him wants Geoffrey to live - and that part overwhelms him.

"_Stop it!"_ He demands, voice edging on tears. The words stop Potter, Alexandra, and Hermione, the whimpering quality to it, stops Geoffrey. He does not need words; Dubhán could have told him to kill the man while using the right body language and tones of voice, and Geoffrey would have understood him. "Stop it. Don't hurt Geoffrey, please. He...wont hurt the man..." He feels weak, unshielded, brought back into the body of a child. His vision is blurring and shaking and becoming muted.

He feels his muscles tense, relax for a fraction of a second, and tense again. He stumbles backwards.

"Please…" he manages to whisper, steeling himself for what he knows is coming, before he collapses onto the floor, convulsing.

**Please review! **


	8. The Abyss

**A/N: Hope you like this chapter. I am really hacking at my old plot and changing a bunch of things. I like it better now though. In this rewrite we'll have to wait a bit longer for Remus and Devlin to meet, though. :) **

**I know I'm updating really quickly, but expect it to start taking a few days to a week soonish – when I'll be writing new material rather than editing old material and adding in bits of new material. **

**On with the story:**

For a long time everything is an abyss of black, but Dubhán tries to stay calm, because the worst part is nearly over. He tries to curl up into a tight ball, but something won't let his body move. He whimpers.

Smells penetrate the darkness first. They always do. His mind awaits the smell of his pillows, his books, his ink, and his Grandfather. His Grandfather always comes to sit with him when this happens, even if he'd been in an important meeting. It doesn't happen very often, though. It shouldn't have happened. Dubhán scrunches up his face: why _had_ it happened?

_You had been panicked and in a body-bind, that's why._ He'd tried to let Geoffrey know, but he'd had his eyes covered. Why had he been a body bind? Why had Geoffrey looked so defeated? _"I've brought him here, what else to do you want of me, Potter?"_ He whimpers again, struggling to wake up, but he knows it's useless. His body won't listen to him until it is ready. Until then he'll just lie there, helpless.

At least this not in the office anymore, he can tell that much. He's in a living room. He's not sure how he knows. Zee lives here…who is Zee?

Sounds, as if traveling through a long tunnel, reach him next. He can hear whispering. He tries to lean towards the whispers and with a jerk his body comes under his control and he tumbles off of some kind of furniture. Someone else is whimpering and running and a moment later he is fighting against someone's grasp. They're going to hurt him!

"Devlin, Devlin, calm down." But he _isn't_ Devlin. Devlin is a little boy and he isn't little. He can't be little.

That _something_ is still whimpering and it is getting louder. Suddenly it starts barking and grumbling and suddenly the wolf awakens in him, surging forward into his consciousness. Once more, his wolf saves him. His eyes snap open, pure amber. Over in the corner a man is holding onto a dog, and it is this thing that is alternating between whimpering, whining, grumbling and barking.

His wolf narrows his eyes, considering the thing. He's wearing a collar and the wolf doesn't like that, but Dubhán recognizes it's purple color. And the snitch shaped tag that hangs off the silver ring.

The wolf whimpers back, seeking out this dogs reaction. The dogs ears quirk and it's eyes come away from the man holding onto it's collar and onto him. It begins pulling until, catching it's captor quite unexpected, it is free.

"Hey!" The man shouts, trying to reach forward, but it's already surging forward, faster than it's feet can keep traction. To him. The wolf in him, sensing his human weakness, curls into a ball. This thing might only be a dog, but his wolf right now is only protected by human skin.

It begins sniffing him and licking him and nudging at him, all the while whimpering in excitement. The wolf frowns and Dubhán takes that moment to gain a bit more control over his thoughts.

The man, Potter, is over by his side, trying to tug the dog away. "Zee, stop that. He's not feeling well. Go to bed." But the dog just looks at him, sits down next to him, and wags his tail. "Go to bed," Potter says again, a bit more firmly. "You're scaring him". So the dog flops down where he is and looks up, whining again.

When Potter looks over to him, he scrambles backwards, up onto the piece of furniture (a sofa) that he must have fallen from.

"Leave him for a minute, Harry," Says a women's voice. She's holding a little girls hand, leaning in the doorframe to the living room. "He's in shock." When Harry nods and begins to go towards them, she looks over to the dog and says "You make sure he's okay, Zee." The dog huffs, as if that was a given. Dubhán stares after them, then looks around the room. Perhaps they don't plan on killing him right away.

The room is painted a dark taupe color, furnished in warm, light colors, windows draped in a mild beige; it has not been changed. He does not know from were this firm, certain, knowledge comes from. He would not have been able to tell anyone, before stepping in this room today, what colors it had been four years ago. He can feel panic surround his chest in its tight, cold, grasp; he knows this is dangerous, and yet, he can do nothing about it.

But that was wrong. He _could_ do something about it. It is only panic at being trapped in the abyss again that propels him off the sofa and into the hallway. He wonders for a long time, before he admits defeat. He's lost. He leans against a wall and curls up, totally and completely lost. He's not used to maneuvering houses – at the camp all maneuvering is done out doors and things are clearly labeled. And his head hurts. And he's still dizzy. He breathes deeply, trying to calm his headache.

The dog, which had been following him, now approaches him slowly. It sits in front of him and simply stares.

"I'm lost," Dubhán says softly, feeling the need to clarify for the dog. He looks up and for the first time truly regards the animal. He is large and sleek looking. His snout is long and sharp and right now his ears are cocked forward a bit. Dubhán reaches out towards his grey and black coat. He looks like a wolf, but he's too small and his coat isn't quite the same. "I'm looking for the man and the lady," he says softly.

The dog rushes to his feet and stands, expectantly, a few steps away. He peers around his body to regard Dubhán, as if waiting. Slowly, Dubhán gets to his feet.

"Can you find them?" The dog whimpers, so Dubhán follows him as he leads him through the hallways and into a kitchen area. The man and the women are both talking to the little girl. He stands there for a moment, quite visible in the doorframe, but also quite unseen so far, and listens.

"Do you remember how you wanted Mummy and Daddy to call you Emmaline instead of just Emma? And Mummy and Daddy said "okay" and didn't call you Emma again until you said it was okay?" The little girl is nodding in understanding. "Devlin only wants to be called Dubhán right now, and Mummy and Daddy and you are going to call him Dubhán until he says we can call him Devlin again – can you do that?" The girl gives a sharp nod.

"That's easy, Mum," she says. "Does that mean now we can have a happy cakes on his birthdays?" The lady and the man smile and seem to choke back a sob of joy. Meanwhile Dubhán is wondering if there is such a thing as a sad cake. Maybe if it was made of vegetables?

"Yes, we can have a cake on his birthday."

"But you'll remember to write Dubhán instead of Devlin, right Mummy?" The lady nods. At that moment the dog decides to walk into the room and over to the man, who he lays his head onto. The man looks down at his lap and then over towards the door, where the dog's eyes keep roaming. He smiles. Dubhán keeps his face perfectly neutral.

"Dubhán, are you hungry? We were hoping you'd have dinner with us." The lady's voice is calm and soothing and reminds him of the lullaby he can sometimes hear in his dreams.

"My head hurts," he begins, unsure how to explain what he so desperately needs. If he does this wrong they may decide not to help him at all. If he says 'I need you to give me this potion that Voldemort's Death Eater's brewed' he imagines they will frown in horror and suspect he's trying to poison himself.

"The medi-witch left some pain relieving draughts," the lady begins, but he shakes his head.

"They don't work. I've built an immunity." The man frowns at this statement, his regard becoming more focused and concerned. "I have a special potion," he says slowly, assessing their reaction.

"If you can tells us what it's called, I can try to get some. Snape usually has all kinds of potions." His ears perk up at the name of the world's most renowned Potion's Master but he shakes his head again. "He won't have this. It hasn't been published. It prevents my…episodes. Having one usually begins a chain reaction and the first sign is a headache. The more I have the worse they get."

They're looking at him expectantly, so he continues. "I have some in my bag, but it's shrunk, and I can't unshrink it myself." He mumbles, grabbing the teeny tiny backpack from his pocket and holding it out towards the lady. She takes looks at it and then levitates it to the table. He must be looking so bewildered at the way she is handling it so carefully that the man clarifies by pointing out it could be a portkey.

"It's not," he feels the need to assure. If it were, he'd already have used it. The lady runs all kinds of analytical spells over the bag until, satisfied, she uses the unshrinking charm.

"Front pocket, one of the small cylindrical bottles, purple." She reaches in and pulls out small vial filled with a blackish blue liquid, but he shakes his head. Finally after several more attempts, she pulls out a purple one and hands it to him. He swallows it down, making a face. "Side pocket, frog please," he says, gagging. She frowns but reaches in, pulling out one of the pockets only contents: chocolate frogs. She unwraps it and hands it to him by a leg. He shoves the whole thing into his mouth. "Tastes awful and burns on its way down," he said after he was finished chewing and swallowing.

"Oooh, can I have one?" That is the little girl. She turns her eyes towards him. They are a brilliant blue and for a moment Dubhán he is lost in memories of another set of brilliant blue eyes. He shakes himself free from that memory and looks to the lady.

"I guess if she says it's okay," he says, quite uncertain he is doing this the right way.

"After dinner, Emma," the lady says and takes one of the frogs and sets it upon the counter before handing his backpack back to him.


	9. Wolfish

**A/N: Wow I must admit I have really been on a writing kick. I just **_**know**_** where this is going right now and can't stop myself. I'm changing it up a lot. I don't imagine any of you ever read the older version of this story, but this version is really starting to come into its own! Hope you don't mind the short chapters. And please review! I'd love to know how you think this is coming along. **

"Aren't you hungry, Dubhán?" Potter (no, 'the man', that way he doesn't have to remember every second that he's with his Grandfather's enemy) asks. It's the fourth time the man has asked that question in the last hour. Previously Dubhán had tried to be polite and merely shrugged, but now he looks across the table and glares.

"To be honest, sir," he says tensely "not for anything you've prepared." Since the game is over, he pushes the plate away from himself and folds his arms across his chest. His words are the truth, but it's also true that he's _very_ hungry. The seizures always take a lot out of him.

"Bad things happen if you don't eat," the little girl tells him. "You could make yourself a sandwich if you don't like what Mummy cooked though…"

"It would still be your food," he grumbles back, trying not to show the girl any anger. She doesn't deserve his anger.

"But our food is just like everyone else's food…" she mumbles, clearly confused.

"It could be poisoned. It could make me sick."

"Mum wouldn't cook bad food for you," she says softly, reaching out a hand to rest atop his knee in a reassuring manner. "She's a good Mum." He wonders how such a little girl can know such reassuring words, can make her voice sound so loving. She doesn't know him. But it doesn't work on him either. He's not foolish enough to be swayed by a little girl.

"I won't eat it. If you're so concerned about my not eating, you can take me home to my Grandfather." The man sighs, the lady frowns, and the little girl tilts her head.

"We don't have a Grandpa," she says, managing to sound certain. "We only have Grandma's sister, but we only send her Christmas and Birthday cards."

For a moment he opens his mouth to say 'yes we do, I was living with him' but her childish remarks thus far lead him to believe she'd reply back with something like 'I want to meet him!' and Dubhán knew, in all honesty, that Grandfather would have _no_ interest in such an immature little thing, blood or not. So he turns away from her brilliant blue eyes and over to the lady's. She looks relieved.

"I'm tired," he says. "Where will you make me sleep?"

"Ooooh, I'll show you your room!" The little girl cheers, jumping up and tugging at his arm. "I'll be right back Mum and Dad!"

They nod, hiding smiles that he'd like to wipe off their faces. It's taking all his self-control to not hit the girl. He doesn't like to be manhandled. The dog, who had been sleeping by his food dish as if to say 'more please', rose to his feet and began wagging it's tail.

"Zee: Dubhán's Room!" The dog races out of the room and Dubhán is dragged after him by a giggling little girl.

**SCENE BREAK**

The door the dog is sitting _against _(as if his body could push it open) looks like every other door, but when Emma opens the door, the inside is blue. Light blues with dark blue highlights color the walls and the bed. On the bed-sheets are clouds and racing brooms with little snitches flying this way and that way. It is all so _childish_. He stands still in the center and just looks at it all.

"This is your room," the little girl says and her voice is more calm and reassuring than the giggling excited one before. He turns towards her. They're both alone. He thinks of asking her about the things in the room, but then shuts his mouth. He doesn't want to know. Soon he'll be back with his Grandfather.

"Are you really tired?" She asks, her voice soft and curious.

"No," he answers honestly. She is only a little girl.

"Then why did you want to go to sleep?"

"Because I wanted to be alone." The girl puts a finger to her lips and taps it there.

"Oh…" Her lips twitch in something Dubhán thinks is disappointment. "Well then I'll see you tomorrow." She walks out of the room and shuts the door. Leaving him alone…or almost alone. When he turns around again, the dog is on the bed.

"I think that is meant to be where I sleep…" he not-quite-demands. The dog wiggles as if to get more comfortable. "Maybe you could sleep on the cushion over there? It looks like a dog bed…" The dog barks and wags its tail. He sits down in a chair and stares at the dog for a long time. He thinks hours go by. The dog, so wolf looking, makes him long for that companionship.

"You know Zee," he begins, "I've learned some new tricks since I last saw you…" the dogs tail is going a mile a minute. "Would you like to see them?" The dog barks. He smirks. He sends a wandless spell towards the door to lock it; the spell won't keep out the man or the lady if they really want to come in, but maybe they'll decide to let him be.

"You see, I told Grandfather I wanted to learn how brew the Wolfsbane potion, but Grandfather said he didn't have the potion master to spare, so I learned this trick instead… " He stands up and crouches low to the ground and a second there is a wolf pup on the floor. It crawls out of the little boys clothes and climbs up onto the bed. The dog sniffs it and nudges it and looks at it in bewilderment. Dubhán tries to convince himself that he's back home and it's a moon-day, even though his whole body feels different as a real wolf instead of a werewolf. He falls asleep with his body half on top of Zee's.

**SCENE BREAK**

"We renewed the wards on the windows, right?" Harry nods absently, pressing something to his ear with deeper concentration.

"Its perfectly silent in there. Do you think he's okay?" Alexandra looks up from her pacing, deterred only by the heavy book cradled in her arms, which she is chanting from, enforcing ward after tedious ward.

"I think he knows we're listening to him." She said, putting the heavy book down on a desk and practicing a wand movement.

"We're dealing with an eight year old, Alexandra, not Mad Eye Moody!" Harry reminded.

"An eight year old who somehow, somehow, survived Voldemort." Harry opens his mouth, ready to retort he had never acted like Dubhán, but Alexandra foresaw the question. "Not in the way you survived, Harry, not by temporarily disarming the danger! He survived by _conscious_ wit." Harry could not dispute this, could no find fault in it. It was true, whether Lily had or had not given Harry power through her love, Harry had been to young to regard Voldemort as anything but a danger, one that had hurt his mother and was in front of him. Dubhán had been every bit aware of who Voldemort was, what Voldemort did, and who he himself was...

"Okay – I get it."

"I don't think you have." She said distantly, turning back to the book and beginning to chant a particularly hard spell, so that Harry knew he must, lest he want all of the wards to drop suddenly, restrain the burning retort that had risen to his mouth and was hard to swallow down.


	10. The Other Werewolf

**A/N: Hope you enjoy this chapter, the scene where Devlin leaves (or in some versions didn't leave) his bedroom was revised at least seven times. I'm pretty happy with it now. I have to be careful to stay true to Devlin. There is such a child in him, hidden away, that sometimes it is so easy to want to write him with his true personality, rather than this over-cautiousness that he's acquired. Nevertheless, a little childishness does shine through. :) **

_**Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! **_

He wakes at the first glimmer of sunlight through the draperies and quickly transforms back and gets dressed. It had been so foolish to transform! What if the man or the lady had come in and seen him? No, he had to keep all his tricks to himself, incase he needed them to escape.

The locking charm is still active and he breathes in relief: they hadn't come in last night. Perhaps they want to lull him into a sense of false security before they harm him? He takes it off – perhaps he will lull _them_ into a false sense of security.

He sits down at the desk in the room, watching the dog as he continues to sleep.

At some point the door opens softly and the man's head peaks around its frame.

"Good Morning, Dubhán." The man greets, "did I wake you?"

"I haven't been in a state which you could wake me from." Dubhán replied.

"I didn't sleep much either," he admits. "Are you hungry?"

"No." Which is a rather short way of saying: not for anything you'll feed me. Harry sighs and closes the door behind him.

"Listen..." He pauses, raking a hand through his already untidy hair. "I don't much fancy having this conversation with an _eight_ year old, but I'll have it anyway." He sits down on the bed and sets his jaw. Somehow, Merlin only knows why, he would rather be having _any_ other conversation with Dubhán than this one.

"Life has a way of getting pretty damn messed up and horrible, I know this, you know this, but that doesn't mean we can curl up somewhere and ignore everything, or..." he can not make the words come out, so he tries again, "or..." Dubhán's green eyes are expectant, not quite, but similar, to the expectancy that had always shone in them when he had asked a question, and had thought, as most children do, that their parents have every answer. "There's always something worth living for, Dubhán, however small or vast...you can't...you have to promise me you wont do anything to hurt yourself."

"If I had wanted to do that, Mr. Potter, I would have some years ago." He says, after a long tense pause between them. "I was a coward then and I'm a coward now." Harry is so startled by his words that he misses the clear statement that should have made his parental part kick in and say: you're not a coward. He feels silly when he finally does say something to the effect, both because the words are preceded by a long silence, and because Dubhán is raising his eyebrows at him in way that resembles Alexandra when she thinks one of his comments are rather unconvincing.

"Be that as it may; I am still not hungry." Harry raises his own brow, mirroring Dubhán with a perfection that seems to frighten the boy slightly.

"I'm not bad, you know." Dubhán blinks; he cannot help but think that Potter, for all his fame and power, should have the capacity to think of something better to say, something not so _lame_. "You used to like me." He runs a hand through his hair.

Memories seem to crowd in his eyes, obscuring the dark green even further, clouding the alertness war has instilled in him. Dubhán is entirely aware of this moment of weakness, of the opportunity it held; he could attack Potter now, perhaps even escape the room, perhaps even reach a fireplace...yet something holds him back.

"What has he done to you?" Potter asks, choking on his own words, lifting a foot to take a step toward him, before, reluctantly and forlornly, placing it back down. "I..." He staggers over to the bed, falling onto it and covering his face with his hands. "I'm so sorry."

Dubhán does not quite know how to react to this, never has he received an apology from an adult that holds a parental position. It feels strange and confining: as if the words have spun into rope and tied themselves around him.

'_It is worthless to speak of love_' his grandfather often said, yet here was Potter, at least close in power to his Grandfather, saying it aloud, repeating it over and over like some kind of chant, hands covering his face, body shaking with emotion...

He realizes, very slowly and very painfully, that he does not understand a single thing about Potter, that, just as he had first realized with Voldemort, he does not know how to _survive_ Potter. He has forgotten how life operates beyond the camps barriers...

He thinks of telling Potter that crying only makes it worse, or that he should hold himself together, or even answering his question which had not been a question all, of telling Potter, firmly and forcefully, that his Grandfather has done nothing to him, but he cannot bring himself to open his mouth and say any of this. He allows himself a single, shaky breath: a moment of weakness.

"Why do you cry over things that have already happened; its really quite useless." He hadn't meant to say the exhausted words at all, but they come out anyway, falling heavily from his tongue.

Potter cannot seem to think of any reply; he lifts his eyes and stares at him as if he is some kind of skewed puzzle. Dubhán has the feeling he is being measured, pictured and categorized. Abruptly, Potter looks away from him.

"Well," Potter says softly, "maybe you'll just come join us at the table. We have a visitor you might remember." With those words, he stands up and leaves. Dubhán watches him go.

Dubhán looks around the room after Potter has left. Everything seems so foreign to him - as if it is from a whole different world. A world he had once been part of but no longer remembers how to join. He sighs and sits at the desk again. In the drawers are crayons and old papers and little action figures. He closes it back up; that's part of a world he can never join again. He turns towards a chest at the foot of the bed. It is full of stuffed animals and dragons that roar at him in welcome, and a small little golden ball that activates when he touches it and begins zooming around the room. He catches it effortlessly and sticks it in his pocket – perhaps it's not _too_ childish.

There are pictures on the wall – of the lady and of the man and of the little girl. And – he touches one – of a little boy with unmistakable umber hair that is _almost_ as dark as the man's crouching next to him. The little boy in the picture has brilliant green eyes without a fleck of amber. He's grinning sheepishly as he waves to the camera.

Over on the bedside table is another picture with all three people in it, only in this one the little boy's eyes aren't so young looking anymore. A bit of caution and thoughtfulness has settled in them just as the amber flecks have mixed with the green. He picks this picture up and stares. There is no denying his thoughts anymore. This is not a picture of _the _man, _the_ lady, _the_ little girl and _the_ little boy. This is a picture of _his_ father, _his_ mother, _his_ sister, and himself. It is the proof. He puts it down gently.

In a corner is a racing broom – he lifts it gently and traces the well-worn handle. He'd flown on this. His father had taught him. Mum had made him spell it to stay close to the ground, but he'd once taken them off when Mum was busy at someone's house. _'Potter was always a fabulous flyer,'_ his Grandfather had once said, when Dubhán coach had been impressed with his own flying. It had been a criticism disgusted as a compliment. It was never a good thing to be compared to Harry Potter. It had been his Grandfather's way of reminding him that there would always be a bit of Dubhán that wasn't worthy of being Salazar Slytherin's heir. But his Grandfather also never lied about Harry Potter, so he knew he was a good flyer.

Emotions overpower good sense in a way they haven't since _that_ night and Dubhán races out of the room with the broom in his hands. His feet clatter down the steps and around the corner and through the living room, until he reaches the kitchen. He ignores the other occupants of the room. He has eyes only for the man, Potter, Harry _Dad._

"I remember," he says breathlessly. "I remember flying. We went to a game. You took the charms off. You gave me this-" he pulls the snitch out of his pocket. "You brought me to Hogwarts. We ate at your old house table. I _remember_." The man, no Potter, no Harry, no – Dad, is so surprised that his grin is delayed, but when it appears it is followed by a laugh.

"Yeah, I remember," he says and his smile makes his eyes sparkle.

"You took the charms off, Harry?" Says the lady – his Mum – so softly that it can't be anything good. The little girl, Emma, is giggling and another man Dubhán just notices is at the table stifles a chuckle.

"Now, now, Alex. Surely you should save Harry's tongue lashing for a different time." This is the unknown man.

"Just remember, Harry James Potter – I don't forget." Potter made a show of swallowing and grimacing. Dubhán didn't think he was actually that afraid.

Dubhán can't draw his eyes away from the stranger. There is something uniquely intriguing about him that goes beyond the fact that he _think_s he knows this man. After all, he _thinks_ he knows a lot of things about this world, but the feeling that is rising in his chest, while he is trying to remember this man, is quite different.

"Hello… Dubhán," the unknown man says softly with a friendly, if uncertain, lilt to his voice.

"You're a werewolf," Dubhán states, narrowing his eyes in thoughtfulness. He can feel his eyes becoming amber as he breathes the mans scent in. "You're the man Geoffrey was so angry with." He takes a step back. It takes a lot to get Geoffrey so enraged.

"I am," the man answers, regarding him with concern.

"Geoffrey didn't want you near me," he says, taking another step back.

"That's true, he did not," the man says, with such brutal honesty.

"Why?" He says, hearing his voice come out with a hollow edge to it. Somewhere deep down, his wolf knows the answer to his question. It's knowledge is evident in the way it over-takes his senses and in the way his shoulder starts to throb dully. And so, when the man opens up his mouth and answers his question, the wolf in him isn't all that surprised.

"Because I bit you, when you were very little."

_**Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! **_


	11. I Don't Care What You Think

**A/N: Hope you like it! Please review! :) **

Two emotions, as opposite from each other as the shadow and the light that creates them, are battling out in his chest; ramming into another until Dubhán is not sure which is winning; the wolf or the boy.

"Remus wont hurt you, Dubhán." Harry assures, taking in the child's taut shoulders and clenched hands.

Silence descends. Dubhán thinks they are probably waiting for him to make the next move, but he's frozen. The wolf is pleased to see this man, but the boy is cautious. He can't remember _how_ he got bitten and so he's not sure of this man. Had he been on Wolfsbane and it had been a conscious attack? Had Dubhán wandered where he shouldn't have been? Had the man gotten lose because of his own locking charms or someone else's? Then he remembers that first day in front of Voldemort and the Cruciatus Curse and how without the wolf the Healer's said he would have gone insane. And so he finds himself saying words that no one expects: "Thank you."

Remus looks bewildered, Potter looks concerned, and Alexandra looks so sad. He finds himself feeling obligated to clarify so they don't think there is something wrong with him, mentally.

"The Healer's said I would have gone insane, if my wolf hadn't taken over," he says softly. "The wolf let me hold on and do what I needed to do and without it Voldemort would have never seen how valuable I was. How strong." Alexandra's eyes are closed, Potter's eyes are smoldering, and Remus is staring forlornly across the room. Maybe he should have just let them think he was mental. He shoves that notion aside: he doesn't care what they feel or what they think about him!

Suddenly he feels angry at the broom in his hand and throws it aside and storms out of the room. Potter calls after him and Alexandra reaches for him, but he ignores them and pulls free. Emma looks so uncertain, looking between all the adults. It is Remus who rises uncertainly to his feet and catches him right before his foot has hit the first stair.

"I never wanted to hurt you," Remus says softly. "But I am glad it kept you alive."

"I'm part _him_ you know," he says in a deathly whisper.

"Part Voldemort?" Dubhán nods sharply. "I know. So is Alexandra." Dubhán shakes his head.

"She pretends she isn't, so it's not the same. I'm part _him_ and I don't pretend it isn't true and you should all hate me for it, but you don't because you think you'll make me want to pretend it isn't true." He pulls free of Remus's grasp and glares up at the werewolf.

"You give your mother too much credit and the rest of us too little. Nevertheless, none of that matters to me. When I look at you I don't think of Voldemort, or Harry, or Alex – I think of _you_. I think of you being _mine_ and it makes my heart ache at the same time it makes it speed up in joy. I was so happy when Alex wrote me and said you were safe and alive. I thought and my wolf thought, that you'd been lost forever."

Dubhán frowns up at the man thoughtfully. "I'm not tame like you," he says, as if it had been asked.

"No, I can see that."

"I don't want to be."

"I don't think I'd want you to be, either. I grew up with a family that loved me despite the fact that I was a werewolf, but wanted me to learn to minimize the diseases effect on my life. It wasn't really my choice. I knew no other way to live along side my wolf but to suppress him."

"I'm not the same boy, either." He says. He feels the need to be blunt. To make them accept or disagree to what he is now – but to know it.

"Neither is Harry the man or Alexandra the same women or Emma the same child. Alex won't even let Emma go play outside by herself – a restriction she wasn't as strict about with you."

He thinks of telling the man that his Mum doesn't have to worry about Emma – that he had made a deal with Voldemort, but thinks better. Remus won't believe him and it's better to keep the child safe, rather than be sorry later.

"Won't you come to breakfast? Harry said you didn't eat anything last night."

"It could be poisoned."

"Now really – you're sounding awful tame if you think they could put something past _your_ nose." Dubhán narrows his eyes.

"I'd have to bring out my wolf to be sure," he says, sensing out Remus's reaction. He hadn't thought Potter would think kindly of having to look into amber eyes at the dinner table. Voldemort forbade it. He had always said if he wanted to do that, he could eat in the barracks with the other werewolf's.

"I think Harry and Alexandra would simply be happy that you're eating."

So they walk back into the kitchen and Dubhán eats breakfast and even he admits it is good to feel food in his stomach again.

**So, I can now release the snippet about exactly **_**how **_**Devlin was bitten by Remus. Was it an accident? Do you think I should post it? It's actually about 5 pages long. Not sure if you guys are interested in reading it? **


	12. The Visitor

When Remus leaves Zee stands at the fireplace and howls in a sing-song way. Dubhán watches and listens in fascination.

"He sounds like a wolf…" He shakes the urge to join with him in his song of longing. To become the little wolf and sit beside him and comfort him. His Mum is picking up some toys and putting away books and she smiles kindly.

"Perhaps that is because he's part wolf. He only howls like that for Remus, Sirius, and of course, you."

"Why would you give a wolf to a child?" He asks, although he really doesn't have a problem with the dog.

"I didn't. Sirius got him for you for your birthday. I hadn't the heart to take him away. We'd tried to get a puppy – Hermione had thought it might help you heal after the bite – but you didn't connect with any of them. You called them all 'silly'. Sirius got it in his head that what you needed was a twin – something that was part 'tame' and part 'wild'. The puppy jumped out of the box and you two looked at each other with such an intelligent regard and you seemed to understand each other. You smiled. You hadn't smiled since the bite. He was your protector."

"But he didn't protect me," the words fall from his mouth before he can stop them and he looks forlornly at his shoes.

"We locked him up at night in a crate, because he liked to chew things. He was there in your bedroom when they kidnapped you. Harry smashed that stupid crate the next day. You could see his teeth marks on the metal – his claw marks on the floor of it. He tried so hard to protect you, Dubhán."

"I…should get to sleep. May he sleep with me again?"

"There is nothing more he would like to do. Zee-Zee, Dubhán is going to bed." The dog looks up from his song and towards the boy. Dubhán can almost see him connect the phrase to him. _Boy = Dubhán_. He trots over and pushes his body gently against Dubhán.

On his way up the stairs Potter stops him on his way back from tucking Emma into bed.

"Tomorrow we have to figure out your potion situation. We have to figure out how to duplicate the potion you need. So expect a breakfast visitor."

"There are not many brewers who can do anything with a boy who has only seen it made, sir."

"No, not many. But the one at breakfast can. Now go to bed, you need to be well rested." Dubhán doesn't have much faith in his assumption, but nods.

"Sir?" Potter stops and waits for him to continue. "You wouldn't, er, come into the room I'm sleeping in if I didn't want you too, right?" He swears the man quirks a smile.

"I won't, no. If you keep it clean, neither will Alex. Unless the wards go off, of course." Dubhán nods and heads up to bed. Behind him Harry knows he'll have to keep good to his word, even though curiosity is blooming in his mind.

Upstairs Dubhán locks the door again, folds his clothes neatly atop his desk, and transforms into his wolf. He leaps onto the bed and tries to find a comfy spot near Zee.

OoOoOoOo

Dubhán wakes up thinking about what awaits him downstairs. He's been thinking about it all night. He thinks about it, as he gets dressed, as he unzips his backpack, as he swirls the purple potion around in its vial, as he swallows the distasteful substance and as he covers the taste with chocolate. Without this potion he knows he would likely die, slowly but surely.

'_We don't know, My Lord, if the child's mind did actually succumb to the curses forces. It could be that his more feral behavior is because the child's mind is no longer strong enough to control the wolf.' 'Each seizure is like another dose of the original curse. If the seizures are not brought under control, even the wolf's mind will eventually be unable to defend itself, My Lord' _The words haunt him as he steps out of his room. If he doesn't tell this person how to brew his potion then he will die, if he does tell him, Voldemort may very well see it as betrayal. His mind and his body become more and more numb with every step toward the kitchen.

_Stop thinking. Stop feeling. Do what has to be done._ But what had to be done? Would survival matter if Grandfather were just as likely to shove him aside, deeming him as a traitor? Traitors were killed.

He feels as if he's walking to his doom. Both things result in death.

_But only one death is absolutely certain…_ his mind whispers, teasing him with hope. _Perhaps Grandfather would want you to live, so that you could fight to get out of here, to get back to him. You can't escape if you are constantly having episodes. _

He breathes in and out, and lets hope travel through his veins. With each breath he feels the numbness slinking away. Finally he reaches the kitchen and looks up. Sitting at the table is Potter and another man. His hair hangs about his jaw line, lank and greasy and his nose is like an eagles beak. His eyes are sharp and observant and even though Dubhán has made no sound, he sees his approach. He doesn't smile; he doesn't show any emotion at all, until Dubhán tips his head up, to face his doom. The man draws the lightest breath in through clenched teeth. Dubhán wonders what about him is so surprising.

"Hello," he says softly, looking up at him. This time it is the man who turns away from his regard, as if it burned him.

"Dubhán, this is Severus Snape. He's going to help us figure out the potion."

"Thank you, sir." He says. Severus Snape…if he hadn't been so numb he'd have let himself smile. He's standing in front of the worlds best potion master. "I've read your books, sir." He says instead, in that same deadpan voice.

"I'm sure you read them in the same manner your father read his potion books during school." Dubhán frowns at the caustic tone. He's not sure what he's done to upset the man so much. Perhaps he is always so sardonic?

"I don't know, sir in what way Potter read his books. Potion's is my favorite study, sir. Next to charms, of course."

"I thought your eldest brat was eight, Potter." The man says, turning away from him as if he had little value.

"He is. Dubhán, have you ever used a wand?"

Had he? Well yes. He _had_ a wand. Hidden in a secret compartment of his backpack. It was spelled to be undetectable to the Ministry. He bites his lips. He won't tell that to Potter.

"No, sir."

"So how do you know Charms is your favorite subject?"

He fidgets and finally decides that he can't lie outright to Potter. Oh, he's not worried about lying to Potter, but the other man seems like he'd know.

"I can do basic charms without a wand, sir." Which is true. It isn't anything special. Voldemort had insisted he be able to, because he "you are either powerful enough, or not". Being unable to, Dubhán knew, had not been an option. To not be powerful was to not be worthy of being Salazar Slytherin's Heir. Or Voldemort's. When he had finally mastered the most basic charms wandlessly, his Grandfather hadn't acted like it was anything especially special.

Potter, however, is wearing an expression that cannot be anything _but_ surprise and awe. Dubhán looks away from the expression. Snape is wearing one of intrigue, as if Dubhán had just stepped up in value, but not that much. He is much more comfortable with that regard.

"Should I start telling you how to make the potion, sir?" Since he's decided he'll tell them, he no longer has to pretend he knows so very little. He knows how to make this potion; his Grandfather had made sure he knew. _Because he never wanted you to be without it. _He nods to himself and takes a seat at the table, stealing a piece of paper from Potter and his quill. He begins to write down the ingredients.

**Hope you liked this chapter. I'm not very good at writing Snape, but I'm trying to improve. You might be able to figure out what surprised him about Devlin, but if not, I'm sure it will come up later. :) Check my profile out for the snippet about Remus biting Devlin, I uploaded it yesterday. :)  
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**Please review! Please review! Please review! Please review! **


	13. Love Without Requirements

Dubhán knows he's describing the brewing process perfectly; he's been trained how to present such things, but the man never once acts like he possesses a mediocre of ability in the subject. If it were anyone else, Dubhán wouldn't care, but this is Severus Snape, the _best_ Potion Master in the _world_. And Dubhán loves potions.

"That will be enough," the man says. He casts a time spell in the air and adds, "I have a class of first years to teach in less than twenty minutes."

"I will drop this off the day after tomorrow-" he pauses here and Dubhán thinks he's trying to figure out what to call him. Several times this morning the man had went to call him 'Potter' only for the word to die half-way in his mouth. He's been calling him 'boy' instead. But his lips aren't pushed together in the way they should to form a 'b' and instead he says "Devlin."

"My name isn't Devlin, Sir."

He scowls. "Yes, I've heard you now prefer it said differently. Your parent's may choose to indulge your every whim, but I won't. Did you ever think there was a reason for your name?" With that, he spins on his heel and strides out of the room, his cloak billowing behind him dramatically. They hear the fire roar to life and Snape call out "Hogwarts!"

"What did he mean?" Dubhán asks, turning to his father. "About my name?"

"It was well known that my mother had wanted to call me Devlin, but Harry was my father's, father's name and he died shortly before my birth, so they named me Harry. When you were born I decided to honor my mother by giving her a Devlin." He's smiling softly. "And then as you got older, people who knew my mother began to say it truly was fitting. Molly says you have her smile, her eyes, and her _freckles -_ which you didn't have when you were four! Why, you even inherited her hair that does what you want, because believe me, you didn't inherit that from my side or Alexandra! At least, not if she truly _needs_ hours to make her hair "nice"."

"Grandfather says she was…" he pauses and looks aside as he says the word, then decides he can't even say it, "a muggle born." Potter's shoulders relax at his choice of wording.

"She was," he says simply. "She was also the only witch to stop the killing curse. She was excellet at Charm's and Potion's too."

"I thought you stopped the curse, that's what Grandfather says."

"It's a long story, but she saved me the first time." Dubhán nods slowly. He knows he's probably telling the truth – he knows Grandfather would not have wanted tot ell him that a muggle born came so close to defeating him.

"Now," Potter continues, rising from his chair, "we have some shopping to do. I have to go back to work tomorrow and Hermione can only take so much of Emma's constant rambling in a week, so we have to hop-to and get you some things."

Dubhán frowns. Why would Potter get him things when he hadn't once called him 'father' or 'dad' or referred to as anything but 'him' and 'sir' the most distance-imply words he could utter. He hadn't shown Potter an ounce of trust or love or implied he wanted to stay here. He thinks he ought to double check that he's on the right track in his assumptions.

"What do we have to shop for?" He asks cautiously.

"Dubhán, you've been wearing that same outfit since you arrived. You need some clean clothing." He says this all matter-of-factly, but Dubhán is shaking his head.

"I still don't want to stay here, sir. I still want to go home. You shouldn't buy me things, I won't be here very long. My Grandfather will figure out how to get me back." He thinks Potter is going to yell or curse or cry, but then he takes a deep breath and seems to reign in his emotions.

"Dubhán, even if they sit in your wardrobe for another four years, I _want_ to take you shopping. Besides, we also have to make a trip to a Healer. He checked you out after your seizure and he wants to make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine."

"He'll make sure."

"He doesn't need to, I know."

"Leo is a very good doctor who works exclusively with werewolves. You and he have a history." Potter's eyebrows were raised and Dubhán had the feeling he was trying to convey a message with his words.

"Why this one?" Potter closes his eyes.

"He is highly qualified and _knows_ you."

"I don't know him."

"You were _three_ last time you saw him."

"Doesn't seem like he knows me that well."

"You're gonna have to trust me."

"That's the problem, Sir – I don't" Potter leaned his elbows on his desk and hid his face in his hands.

"Would it make you feel better if I told you he was a werewolf?"

"No. Being a werewolf does not make you..." Dubhán pauses. Suddenly Potter's horrible clues have penetrated his brain. He narrows his eyes. "Oh, it is _that_ doctor. Fine."

OoOoOoOoOo

Potter had to give him a little push to enter into the Healer's office. The secretary smiled at Potter as if she knew him well, but that couldn't be right, because Potter had said the man only saw werewolves.

"We have an appointment with Leo," Potter says simply, keeping a hand on his shoulder. Like Dubhán needed a reminder that he _had_ to attend the meeting or that Potter hadn't let him out of arms reach throughout the entire shopping experience.

"Of course. He's expecting you. Go ahead in," she replies, smiling softly at him. Dubhán glares.

The room is nothing special: it is as void of colors as it is smells (evidence of the repeated sanitation spells that must be used). The lack of smell makes Potter and the Healer's scents all the more suffocating.

"Harry!" The man says, standing up and hugging Potter. The Healer turns his regard to him, "And Devlin, it is wonderful to see you so healthy!"

"My name isn't Devlin," he says softly, but deadly - like the warning rumble that works itself up from a wolf's belly. The man keeps smiling, as if Dubhán hadn't just passed along a clear message: _I'm not lower than you just because I am small. Respect me._ So he bears his teeth and flashes his eyes amber. "My name is not Devlin. It is Dubhán." Still, the man only shakes his head in the way adults do to children when they know the child is throwing a tantrum.

"Devlin, really. I have a hard enough time remember names at is!"

"I'm telling you quite clearly to stop treating me that way!" The man takes a step back.

"You're telling me not to call you Devlin, you're not telling me anything else. Perhaps we should start with a calming draught."

"Are you so tame you can't even pick up on the most obvious body language?" Instead of answering him, he turns the question back upon Dubhán.

"You seem very spirited, Devlin," the Healer said. "Are you having a hard time controlling your wolf?" Dubhán has heard horrors of the potions werewolves can be given to "control" their wolf. This man is probably doped up on every one of them.

"My wolf doesn't need to be controlled," he says flatly. There was no use trying to intimidate a dog, you'll only make them cower with their tail between their legs or get frustrated over them not understanding you, when they truly didn't have the capacity.

"Dubhán, please be polite, he just wants to help you."

"When you were a little thing, you were on some potions to help with your temper. In childhood the illness is often more at the surface than in adults, who have already developed the ability to control their base emotions."

"You…you gave me those _things_…" he is staring at Potter now, his eyes wide and sad and a bit terrified.

"They helped you. You couldn't stop _growling_ at people whenever they said "no" to whatever you wanted. It was harming you. Even you expressed a concern to your mother about "not being able to stop the thing in my chest"."

"I was _three_. I was surrounded by people who didn't understand me! By people who didn't know what to say! By people who were horrified to so much as scold me for _growling_. When I growl at Geoffrey he pushes me, growls back, walks away, forces me to do what I need to do. I learned not to try to be his boss! Geoffrey didn't _pity_ me." He is stepping away in fear. It pains Harry to see fear so clear and sharp in his eyes.

"You can't make me feel that way again. They make my head hurt. They make me tired. They make me stop _feeling_ anything! Maybe I couldn't tell you then, but I can tell you now." He is panicking. He is terrified. He is distraught. He isn't thinking straight. Words are tumbling uncensored out of him: "I'm not a dog, Daddy! I'm a wolf! You can't _control _me. You can't make me act however you want." He pulls his shirt neck away, "I don't have a collar! Unlike him! Maybe he wants his wolf drugged and asleep, but we're inseparable! He saved me! The Healer said I never would have survived the Cruciatus Curse without my wolf!"

Potter is just staring at him, his mouth agape and his eyebrows up by his hairline. Dubhán, thinking he is still unwilling to take his side, continues frantically.

"I'll be good, I promise. I won't do it again. I'll try to be what you say. I'll do _anything_. I know how to be anything you want. Just please, please, I want to _leave here_. No more potions!" He is crying now and doesn't even notice Potter has moved until he feels Potter's hands on his shoulders and his body being brought into an embrace. He fights it, but then gives in and let his heavy head fall down onto the man's shoulder. Potter lifts him easily, says something softly to the Healer, and walks out of the office. When he stops crying he is in Potter's living room, curled into the sofa as Potter whispers softly to him.

"No more potions," Dubhán says softly, looking up to see Potter's reaction.

"Nothing you don't want. I won't ever force you to feel a way you don't. Your just you, and I love whoever that is. I promise."

"How…how can you promise that?"

"When you were born and I looked into your bright green eyes, I promised I wouldn't be anything like my aunt and uncle. They hadn't liked me on principle; they didn't like magic. But they also never loved me for my attempts to be what they wanted – I tried so hard to never do anything 'abnormal'. They didn't care about me because I didn't fit what they wanted."

"Grandfather cares for me…on principle." The words leave his mouth softly, slowly, and painfully. He's not sure why he's telling Potter this. "But I'll never really be good enough for him, because I've got part of you in me." Potter is crying, Dubhán isn't sure why. These are just facts. "And I'll never really be good enough for you because I have part of him in me. And even though mom has part of him too, she treats that part like the healer treats his wolf – she does everything possible to make sure she can ignore it entirely."

"When you were born, I made my own promise," the words drift across the room from the kitchen doorway. Dubhán whips his head around. "I told Harry you were truly the perfect child. He said something stupid like: "of course, he's mine", but I shushed him quickly. You were perfect, I told him, because you had the worst of the worst and the best of the best and that made you perfect. What more opposites could you find than Tom and Harry? Putting them together must equal perfection."

Dubhán sat in silence for a moment. He had never thought of it that way before.

**I'm actually really proud of this chapter. Which probably means I've over looked something and will be back here nitpicking it…but, I digress. I really like this chapter! What do you guys think? I figure I must be doing something good. Even though I still don't have half the reviews I did on the older version of this (6 chapters, 10 reviews) I have a lot of people adding it to their favorite lists. :) **

**I have two great snippets I'm **_**dying**_** to share with you, but know I can't. They're way ahead right now and might actually end up in the story – never mind that sharing them would spoil some plot points. ;) But darn it, I really want to share them! **

**Please review!  
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	14. I Do Care What You Think

Eventually Potter leaves his side and his Mum sends Emma off to wash her hands for dinner. She comes and sits down next to him and reaches out her hand to brush his hair, but then thinks better of it. Dubhán almost wishes she had.

"You know how Remus was over for dinner last night?" Dubhán nods. "Well, Sirius begged me all day at work until I finally gave in. I hope that's okay. If it's too much, I'll ask him to come a different day."

"It's okay," he says softly, trying to sound resolute. He doesn't want them to think he's weak. He can't be weak. Being strong is what kept him alive. Sometimes, Dubhán just wants to curl up and let the world disappear, to take deep breath, to say "no, it's not okay", to demand everything stop so that his mind and heart can catch up, but Dubhán knows he can't do any of those things. "I'm fine."

"No you're not, Dubhán," she says, so softly Dubhán almost believes he's imagined it. She leans close and kisses his forehead. "But we'll change that together."

She stands up and holds out her hand for him and for a moment Dubhán forgets about what his Grandfather would think and takes the hand. She leads him into the kitchen were a handsome man is making Emma float in the air and fly like a bird around the room. She is giggling uncontrollably. When he sees Dubhán he lets Emma down gently.

"Devlin!" he says, but Potter quickly nudges him and he corrects himself, "er, Dubhán!" Dubhán forgets about arguing. His Mum called this man 'Sirius' but Dubhán doesn't think that's right.

"You're Padfoot." He says, absolutely certain of himself. The man rushes forward and snatches him from behind his mother and draws him up into the air. Dubhán's eyes go wide and then shut tightly and he lets himself go limp in the man's arms. _Stupid!_ He knows better than to call people other names than what others refer to them as!

"Sirius," he can hear Potter say, quiet and tense.

He knows it will only be worse if he fights it initially and so he lets the man lift him up and drag him through the air. Then the man seems to notice he's not fighting. He hadn't thought this man like Grandfather, perhaps he was wrong to give in? He peeks his eyes open when his feet touch the floor and sees the man crouched down beside him, regarding him with horror and sadness.

"Harry was right, you thought I was hurting you," he says, looking over at Potter, whose face is drawn into a grimace. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"People don't like being called names they don't like. I thought I was stupid again. Are…are you really Padfoot then?"

"Yeah, I am." The man says, a smile trying to tug at his lips again.

"Why would you think he would hurt you over his name?" His Mum asks, stepping closer to him. He ducks his head and fidgets with his hands.

"There's a name Grandfather doesn't like to be called. When I met him first he asked me if I knew his name and I _thought_ he'd never believe I knew his real name and it would impress him, but he hates that name."

Emma is frowning at them all. "We don't have a Grandpa, Dubhán. I told you so."

He looks away from her, than decides he has to be strong for her, most of all. In the same moment he realized that being strong for Emma didn't necessarily mean the truth.

"Yes we do, but he doesn't like Dad and so Mum doesn't even send him Christmas or Birthday cards."

"Oh…" She frowns, still suspicious. "How come you've met him?"

"Because he wanted to hurt Dad by taking me away from him." He says, his throat clenching up. This is all the truth. He isn't lying. He isn't betraying. He _isn't_.

"I think that's enough of that for tonight. Lets all have dinner." Alexandra's voice is shaking. Sirius's eyes look haunted. Potter's eyes look dim and abandoned. Once more Dubhán wonders if he'd just be better to have let them think him weird. _If you hadn't opened your mouth, they would have just thought you didn't like hugs,_ he thought. And this time, such thoughts didn't lead to anger and resentment and thoughts of not caring what they believed for felt.

OoOoOoOoOo

After dinner they all walk into the living room, so Dubhán (who hadn't said a word through dinner) follows them. Sirius pulls a shiny package out of his pocket and hands it to Emma, who unwraps it quickly. It is a doll, with childish features. Sirius taps it with his wand and it turns on, and it begins to make noises in its pretend sleep. Emma squeals and races up to her room "to introduce everyone!". Dubhán watches her go with a morbid fascination; are all little girls like that?

"I thought that would keep her busy while I got to talk to you, Dubhán," Sirius says. He seems to have learned his lesson and his voice is soft and controlled now. The over exuberance has faded from all but his eyes. "I have a present for you, too, of course. I don't know much about what you like, so I had to pick your Dad's mind. Even he couldn't tell me much…" The man seems almost guilty. Dubhán frowns.

"You shouldn't give me presents, I won't be here very long."

"Yeah, your Dad warned me you'd say that," he says dismissively. "But that didn't really change my mind." He draws a package out of his pocket and unshrinks it.

Dubhán isn't sure why, but he expects it to be a racing broom, or something to do with flying, but instead it is high-end potion kit, just like the one would get before going off to school. He stares at it for a long moment. Grandfather had ought-right refused to get him one, even though he'd gotten as close to begging as he preferred, for months prior to his birthday. Grandfather had said that Potions, while respectable, was not truly that magically taxing. Which meant it wasn't good enough. Which meant Dubhán wasn't supposed to love it. But oh how he did!

He sits there on his knees for a long moment, looking at the wooden box that unlatches and opens up like a miniature cabinet. At the bottom is a small starters caldron and ladle and all around it are basic ingredients that a first year would require. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what to feel. He doesn't know what to say. He can't even bring himself to touch it.

_Grandfather had said no,_ Dubhán's mind reminds him. _He would be so mad if you use it._ But oh how he wanted to use it! Oh how he was looking forward to that fact that tomorrow would be the "day after tomorrow" when Severus Snape would be back in his kitchen.

He looks up at Potter.

"Do you promise?" he says so softly that for a moment he can almost imagine he hadn't been weak enough to ask.

"Promise what, Dubhán?"

"Promise you won't tell Voldemort." The adults all look confused, "Grandfather wouldn't get me one," he says softly. "How'd you know I'd want one?"

"Well I was visiting Remus and saw Hermione in the teachers room and decided to pester her for some ideas. Snape was there and in the middle of Hermione's fifth rather lame suggestion he stood up and drawled: 'why don't you just the boy a potions set?'. Of course I asked him why and he said: 'the boy practically treated _me_ as if I was famous Harry Potter'. So I did. Guess he got it right, huh?" Sirius swaggers his eyes brows in a silly manner that even gets a chuckle out of Dubhán. "It was the second best one in the store. The store manager said I shouldn't get you the next set, since it's for older students. I thought your mom would have my head as it was with this-" he snuck a glance at Alexandra, who seemed to be trying to remain expressionless "so I got you the kiddie version. Hope that's okay."

Zee wandered from the kitchen, where he had probably come in from outside, and over to smell all of the sealed jars.

"Hey boy," Sirius said, patting him. "I didn't forget you!" He pulls an unwrapped bone out of pocket and tosses it into the middle of the room. The dog rushed after it, scooping it up and walking away. Dubhán knows, tonight, his wolf-self will be jealous.

"Thank you, sir." He says


	15. The Blue Summer Dress

The Blue Summer Dress

When Zee becomes annoyed with his puppy bone-stealing antics, Dubhán transforms back into a human, slips into some pajamas, and tries to let sleep take him. Zee, sensing that his boy is no longer a threat to his bone, comes and curls up against him. Dubhán puts an arm around the dog and scratches behind his ears and for a moment neither dog nor boy could be happier. Then sleep finally does take Dubhán into its dark grasp. Only Dubhán has forgotten that human minds can dream so vividly and of such horrible things. He tosses and turns amidst the nightmare playing out in his mind.

_Snap. It's the sound of __Apparition__; a sound that shouldn't occur in the middle of the compound. All eyes turn to the newcomers and everyone sighs in relief when the wards do not shatter – it is not an attack. Geoffrey lets go of his shoulder, but his regard is stuck on the two men, and what they have brought. _

_Geoffrey mumbles words about new recruits and not knowing proper protocol and tries to drag Dubhán away from the scene. His eyes are transfixed. Blue summer dress. Red hair falling into a pale freckled face. Brilliant blue eyes red and puffy from crying, but still sharp and intelligent. He can't move. He remembers Geoffrey picking him up and carrying him away. He remembers trying to fight his way back. He remembers her screams, her pleas, and her fear. He remembers what they said to her as they dragged her away from him. _

He's screaming. His throat is raw and his nails are digging into something soft and flesh-like. Zee is whining in his sing-song way. He throws himself against the restraints, but they only gather him in more tightly. Words, half-distorted and hard to hear, reach his ears. _'Alex' 'having' 'calm' 'swallow'. _He feels the coolness of glass against his lips, but clamps his jaw and throws himself against these restraints again. Liquid spills over him only to vanish a second later. They're keeping him. He has something to do. Something that _has_ to be done. He opens his mouth to beg with them, but then thinks better. No one can know. No one can know his plan.

Something cool fills his mouth and he struggled to spit it out, only to find his nose plugged and his jaw pushed closed. He fights with his full muster, but finally swallows. The coolness spreads into his stomach and into his veins and into his mind. The coolness seeps over the image of the blue summer dress until he slumps back against the restraints, defeated. The words aren't so hard to understand, now.

"Dubhán, it's okay. I gave you a calming draught. You had a nightmare. It's okay." There are hands carding through his hair. A heartbeat behind his own. The words keep coming. "It's over now. It can't hurt you. It's okay. Everything is okay. We're here. Da- Harry and Alex are here. We'll make sure everything is okay." He knows why the man doesn't call himself 'Dad' but the tiniest bit of Dubhán wishes the man had, despite his requests and behavior. Dubhán, after all, can't _ask_ for it. He struggles half-heartedly against the restraints but they, at least, stay regardless of his behavior. "You're on the floor, Dubhán, please don't throw yourself around." For the first time Dubhán feels the knock on his head and the throbbing on his side.

Slowly, he lets his eyes open. In front of him is the bed, beside him is the lady, behind him, holding him, is the man. Zee is curled up on the bed, his head drooping off the side so that his nose is less than a foot away.

It hits him that the man the women are in the room they'd given him, even though they had said they wouldn't.

"You're not supposed to be here," he says, a bit defensively. He doesn't want them to see him like this – so weak. His throat is raw and his words are hoarse.

"Zee woke us up," the lady says and she motions to the door. The white-washed wood surface is now scarred with scratch marks. The drywall next to the door is half-chewed, half scratched. Dubhán admires the dog's persistence. Even now, it is watching him in concern.

"We didn't know what was going on, you were screaming," the man says. As if he needs a reminder of his stupidity or weakness. He tries to push himself away from the man, but he pulls him closer. "Dubhán, we were worried about you. We wouldn't break our word except for your safety. Zee was acting as if you were being murdered!"

"Yes, thank you sir, I get it. I was screaming. I let a nightmare get the better of me! It was stupid." The man holds tighter to him and when Dubhán looks down, to try and pry the mans fingers apart, he sees for the first time that he's not the _only_ injured one. Up and down the mans arms are scratch marks. "I could have bitten you," he says seriously, turning in the mans arms enough to see his face.

"I actually _do_ know my lycanthrope facts, despite what you think. You _did_ bite me. But at worst it will make feel sick for a couple days, at best I will hardly notice." He frowns up at the man. His Grandfather would have simply cast an _Ennervate_ and handed him a Dreamless Sleep potion, if he had bothered to do that. Most of the time Dubhán's only evidence that he'd had a nightmare was a silencing charm as it dissipated when he opened his door. Here was Harry Potter, perhaps not as powerful as his Grandfather, but certainly not weak, willing to be bitten by him, just to sooth his nightmares. It was almost too much for Dubhán to acknowledge.

"You could have just let Zee out and…put a silencing charm up." He says, without spite or argument. He's just letting them know. Perhaps they hadn't known it was an option.

"Dubhán, we would never do that. We care about what's happening to you. We don't think any less of you for having nightmares. We don't want to shut you up and forget it happened, we want to help you through whatever is bothering you." Dubhán looks up in the lady's eyes and knows she must simply be trying to sooth him. She can't really believe her words. More than a tiny part of his heart wants to believe her, so badly. But he knows she's just placating him.

"I won't tell you anyways. You can't make me." Yes, he ought to be clarifying this point for them. They weren't going to murmur soft words to him and expect him to give up his secrets. They were just trying to get him to betray Grandfather. That had to be it.

"That's okay," the man says, "you don't have to tell us. You don't have to tell us now and you don't have to tell us later – but if sometime you feel like you want to tell us, we'll always be here to listen." But they wouldn't, would they? Because Grandfather was going to figure out way to get him back, and then it would be silencing charms and _Ennervate _and the disgusting taste of Dreamless Sleep. He licks his lips, slowly realizing that they taste like cherries.

"What potion was that?" He asks, skeptical. Had they poisoned him?

"It was a calming draught, but when Emma has nightmares she outright refuses to swallow anything 'yucky' so I bribed Severus to make me some 'yummy' ones. I give him hard-to-find venom in exchange." The man is swaggering his eyebrows like Sirius. Dubhán masters the urge to smile.

"Grandfather says you can talk to snakes…" he says.

"I can. Can you?" Dubhán looks away, at his feet, which are next to the man's feet, a reminder again of what he can't grow to count on. This is weakness.

"I don't know…I think Grandfather avoids me being around snakes because…I would be such a disappointment if I couldn't. He won't even let Nagini near me." The man's arms pull him close to his chest.

"It shouldn't be something you are judged by, little one." He says, whispering right against his ear. Dubhán frowns at the nickname. The man has never said it before. Somehow, although he scolds himself, he rather likes the name.

"I don't think I can, anyways. I don't think I'm enough _his_ side." The man is laughing and Dubhán finds himself hurt. It was so stupid of him to let the man see his weakness! Now he would use it against him!

"Dubhán?" He says and Dubhán turns around to see his smile, scowling at the expression. "You just did. You just spoke to me in _Parseltongue." _Dubhán blinks a couple times.

"I did?" He asks, so softly, so afraid that Potter will choose this moment to admit 'no, you stupid boy, I lied!' and laugh at him for his naiveté.

"Yes, really. If I summon a snake for you so you can see for yourself, do you promise you'll let me clean those scrapes and go back to sleep?" He nods without much thought, so eager to find out. Oh how Grandfather would be proud! He would smile and put a finger under his chin and say 'you are a good boy, Dubhán' and everything would be right!

Potter summons a small harmless-looking snake and Dubhán looks at the serpent and says "Hello?"

"Hello speaking-one." Dubhán nearly falls backwards, but Potter catches him.

"You can understand me?"

"Yess, you are speaking to me," it replies, beginning to look around.

"Can I send him back, now?" Potter says, and from the way the snakes head swivels to regard him, Dubhán thinks he must be speaking _Parseltongue too. _Dubhán nods. When the snake is gone, he dutifully climbs into bed, stretches out his arms, and lets Potter cover each scrape.

Alexandra excuses herself to go check on Emma, and Dubhán feels a tiny pang of guilt at the thought he might have woken her up. Potter is quick to reassure him that Emma was fine once she knew it was only a nightmare. He swallows. Had _she_ seen him screaming? But he hides such things quickly. He'd made Potter a promise. And really, at the moment, his happiness and being able to do such a _Slytherin_ thing really over-rode whatever guilt he was feeling.

Potter tucked him under the blankets and brushed his hair away from his forehead and after some awkward lingering, dropped a kiss atop his head. Dubhán lay perfectly still after he'd left, mesmerized.

**I wanted to send a shout out to ****MissVenusVixen**** for her lovely reviews! I look forward to them every time! Hope you enjoyed this chapter. :) Thank you to everyone who has reviewed!  
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**Next up will be "The Day After Tomorrow" which of course, means Severus Snape! I've been reading up on an awesome site where you can read **_**everything**_** Snape said in all seven books. I'm hoping to get over my Severus Snape writing phobia. ;) By now you should have figured out why he looked so surprised at Devlin and his first encounter. I sure hope you have, because the snarky potion master doesn't seem the type to tell you folks outright! **

**Please review! Please send encouraging word about writing Snape! Send suggestions – what do you think his first words would be upon seeing Devlin for the second time? Hmm? How do you think he likes being treated like bloody famous Harry Potter? **

**Update...I actually have the whole next chapter ready, but I'll wait until it's not nearly 2am to post it. Perhaps Snape wasn't that scary after all! Hope I actually wrote him well. :) See ya in the morning.  
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	16. The Day After Tomorrow

Dubhán awakes slowly the next morning. Immediately he can feel his fingers and toes and too-small nose and knows he doesn't need to worry about transforming. It is a pleasant feeling, to wake up without worry. Then he opens his eyes and directly in his line of sight is his door – his clawed door. The night comes rushing back to him. He frowns and tries to shove aside his feelings of weakness.

He gets dressed. _Don't think, Dubhán._ He takes his potion, leaving only two more. _Don't feel, Dubhán._ He opens his door and heads downstairs, hoping Potter won't mention last night. _Desires are worthless causes. _He turns the corner. _You can't be weak._ He walks through the living room, crosses the hallway, and steps into the kitchen's doorframe. It is the kitchen where he always finds them in the morning, sitting around the table. Except today there is no Emma eating cereal. No lady shuffling papers.

It is that day 'after tomorrow'…and Severus Snape is at the kitchen table, drinking tea with Harry Potter. He nearly scurries away to upstairs. He wants to close the bedroom door and lean against his door and just _breathe_. He wants to, but he doesn't.

_I am not weak_. He tells himself. Grandfather says that if fools tell themselves something enough, they believe it to be true. For once, Dubhán hopes he has a bit of a fool in him. _I am not weak_. _I cannot be weak_. _I will not be weak_. _I will stand here, straight-backed and proud. Grandfather says even Potter does that. _

"Are you just going to stand there like a complete dunderhead?" The professor asks, looking pointedly at him with his dark black eyes.

"Severus, he's obviously nervous. He's unaccustomed to-" But Potter doesn't get to finish.

"What Potter is insinuating is that you _are_ a complete dunderhead and you _did_ simply manage to survive the Dark Lord by mere luck. Otherwise, you would easily be able to adapt to a new set of rules, just like someone who had survived because of skill instead of luck. But perhaps Potter is correct about you…"

For a moment Dubhán wants to say hurtful things back at the man, and oh the things he knows to say! One cannot betray the Dark Lord, live to talk about it, and to not be expected to be talked about in turn. He knows things, personal things, about this man that perhaps Potter doesn't even. He bites his tongue. Hurling insults is not strength. It is the weak-mans tool. No, he just stares at Snape as he steps through the doorway and takes a seat at the table.

"Did you have any trouble brewing the potion, sir?" He asks, his tone perfectly polite. He thinks he could make his voice come out with the tone even under torture. Goodness knows he's had plenty of practice.

"Of course I did not have any trouble, you silly child." _That's a step up from 'dunderhead'_.

"It took the Dark Lords best potion masters months to create. The one, who finally did it, took a week to recreate the potion. It took the others two weeks to learn how to follow the directions, stirring at precisely the right moments, to create it independently."

"And I'm sure you take great pride in having memorized the lines," Snape seethes, "you're just as arrogant-"

"I am not arrogant!" Dubhán shouts. "I do not boast about what I do not know! I have not memorized anything – if they had been willing to put ingredients and cauldron in front of me I would have brewed it for myself! I did not survive by being arrogant – I survived by the opposite. By being cunning and sneaky and willing to set aside my own pride for my safety! Do not call me arrogant."

"Dubhán, calm down."

Dubhán wanted to tell the man to set the potions on the table. That he'd look at them later. That he was just a great mudblood loving fool. But he stops those words before they cross the line between thought and words. He feels them, searing the tip of his tongue.

"I am not angry, sir. I am simply disgusted by the accusation." He stands up and looks at the man. "Is there anything else you'd like to say to me?"

"What are you doing, boy?"

"I'm facing you straight-back and proud," he says, quietly but deadly. He hears Potter swear, grab his shoulder, and drag him back into his seat. In _Parseltongue, Potter whispers "__calm down. You are not being cunning or clever." __Instead of responding discretely, _Dubhán rounds on him.

"You can't tell me how to act. I'm not foolish. I didn't survive by luck. I could change my actions and reactions to suit your environment, but why _bother_. Voldemort will find me and bring me back and all the things _you_ want me to do he will call _weak_. Weakness is not something the Dark Lord accepts kindly, sir!" Potter slumps in his chair, looking defeated.

"Perhaps," the potion master hisses softy, "what you should be teaching this boy first is Occlumency, then worry about manners."

Potter has his hands in his hair, resting his head. He chuckles in a very sardonic manner. As if he believes this to be a cruel joke. Dubhán has heard the word before, but only once or twice. He tries to recall reading about it. He must have read about it. He has read about everything…_that Grandfather has let you. _

"Occlumency…it has something to do with a barrier between one individuals mind another's, yes?"

"Perhaps you are not a _complete_ dunderhead. Occlumency is the act of defending your mind against Legilimency, which is what Voldemort, a Legilimens, uses to know whether you are lying or not." Dubhán stops breathing for a moment. Is it possible he is actually hearing this correctly? Is it as simple as _learning a skill_? He banishes the thought. These are traitorous thoughts. Thoughts he's not allowed to have.

"But…wouldn't the fact that you are barricading your thoughts…wouldn't that just tell him you're keeping the truth from him?" They are the dunderheads if they think it's that easy to fool Voldemort. He's spent four years being proven time after time that he can't fool the man. Even his deepest darkest secrets, he's almost certain he knows. It is only a silver of remaining hope that keeps him protecting them.

"And there you are, thinking like a dunderhead again. If you were able to erect a barrier in your mind, child, where would you have that barrier be? Which is easier to protect: a small or large territory?"

He knows the answer. It is simple. Small. But he also knows that is not the complete answer and this man will call him a dunderhead again if he answers incompletely. Grandfather would have sent a stinging hex or something similar his way.

"I would build it around my secrets but let everything else go unprotected, because it wouldn't be important whether you saw what I hate for dinner last night." The professor actually smirks.

"Perhaps the Potter genes have finally succumbed to other influences." He says smugly. He rises from his chair. "At any rate, Potter, you should put some thought into the idea. It would certainly give the brat a sense of ease. He could actually _feel_ things without worry about the consequences."

"Severus?" Potter says, looking up. "You're forgetting that I completely _suck_ at Occlumency in any traditional fashion."

"I never forget what makes you a dunderhead, Mr. Potter. It is some of my most treasured thoughts. That and the dog chasing you up the tree." He is wearing a smirk as he puts twelve vials of potion on the table and sweeps out of the room. They hear him disappear through the floo. Dubhán looks over at Potter, considering him.

"Does that mean you _can't_ teach me?"

"Oh, I can teach you, it just wouldn't do you much good. Voldemort would _know_ you were keeping him out if you did it my way. But, Severus was right and I'll find you someone who can. I promise."

"Couldn't…couldn't he teach me?"

**Hope you liked this chapter. Did I do a good job with Severus? As you can guess, I will probably be writing quite a bit more of him. I think we've finally reached the hurtle that Devlin has to over come – the idea that Voldemort will get him back, and the idea that every thought and feeling he's had while he's away, will be seen and paid for. I am also playing with the character categories on this story. Previously it had been Harry/OC but I think maybe that's been confusing people and not putting it in front of people who might actually like to read it, so I'm trying it as Voldemort/Harry since those are the two main book characters that are talked about so much.  
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**Please review! They make me smile and think more about this story and the more I smile and think about this story, the better the chapters are and the faster they arrive! :)  
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	17. The Break Down

Dubhán goes to bed just as he has the other few nights, but he doesn't transform. Instead he waits for the house to go quiet, and he sneaks out of his room, Zee at his side, wand in hand.

"Take me to the Library," he says softly to the dog, which begins walking purposefully ahead of him. Dubhán follows. Once more he is impressed with the wolf-dogs intelligence when he opens the door and is greeted with rows upon rows of books.

He uses a version of the 'point-me' spell to find the section containing Occlumency books. There aren't many books, three to be exact, but Dubhán pulls them all down and takes them quietly back to his room. Zee follows him, his head swiveling this way and that, watching.

When they are back in the bedroom, Dubhán pats the dog's head and tells him he's a good boy. Zee just stays sitting and Dubhán finally has to tell him he has no bones; the dog slinks away to sleep on the bed.

He lays the books out on his desk, handling them gently. His whole body is shaking in anticipation. He has to understand, here and now, if this is actually a viable option.

There are three books, varying in thickness and newness. Dubhán picks up the newest looking one, which also happens to be the thinnest. 'The Beginner's Guide to Shielding the Mind'.

'_There are wizards and witches, utilizing the art of Legilimency, who can view your thoughts as simply as if you had put them into a Penseive and given them permission to look. The sister art to Legilimency is Occlumency and it is the act of shielding against such an intrusion.'_

Dubhán reads long into the night until his eyes are cold. He manages, with his last ounce of wakefulness, to tuck the books into a desk drawer, flop onto the bed, and sleep. Tonight, no nightmares plague him.

"Dubhán, it's time for breakfast." He turns over in his sleep, his eyes scrunching shut. It was _her_ voice. He must be dreaming. "Dubhán, sweetheart, please wake up. I know you don't want me to come in there, but I've got to get to work and Harry is busy." What was he dreaming about this time? Why was his dream-Mum talking about leaving for work? That's never what she said. She was supposed to walk over to his bed and give him a kiss and try and tickle him. He scrunches up his face some more. But what had she called him? Dubhán? She never called him that name… He shoots bolt upright in bed and clambers out of it, stumbling over to the door.

She's standing there, smiling. He's still wearing his pajamas.

"Hey, sweetheart. You've got to get dressed and eat. Emma's visiting Sirius today and I'm off to work and you're going with Harry today."

"Where am I going?" He asks softly. She winks secretly.

"I can't tell you that," she says, a smile spreading across her face. He looks suspiciously up at her and almost begs not to go back to the Healer, since that's the only thing he can think they'd need to hide from him, in order for him not to fight back.

Such begging, however, would be beyond weak and so he nods and turns around to get dressed. He doesn't close the door on her – he doesn't intend to get completely naked, and beside, he suspects she wouldn't like one of her own doors being shut in her face. He hadn't been allowed to shut the door on Voldemort, after all.

He pulls off his shirt and while his head is trapped beneath it still, hears her gasp. He pulls it quickly over his head and turns around to see what is the matter. She has a hand on her lips.

"That was more than your bite mark!" She says furiously, and her feet carry her quickly to his side. For a moment she seems to forget his aversion to being touched and lays a hand on his shoulder to turn him around again.

His back is littered with scars. Some, she admits, are clearly bite marks, just like she'd expect from Geoffrey's description of his group transformations. But among the random drag marks are ones that are clearly from torture curses, looking like the swoosh of a wands motion brought through the air. She feels sick and begins sobbing. Somehow, she had hoped that Voldemort would spare him of such brutality.

He turns around slowly and looks up at her. He's trying to speak to her, but she's in too much shock. He leads her to his bed. He's looking at her, wondering what is wrong. She wants to reach out to him and draw him into a hug, but knows it would only make him feel worse. She clutches to herself instead and turns her head down, hiding it in her hands. She doesn't notice when he races out of the room and down to the kitchen to get Harry.

"Alex, hun?" Harry says softly. He makes her stand and she sobs onto his shoulder, clinging to him. Behind her she sees that Dubhán has put a shirt on, although his bottoms are still pajamas. "What's wrong, baby?" He asks, concern drenching his words.

"He – Harry. He – scars - back!" She can't seem to open up her mouth or her lungs long enough to say the proper words and Harry only frowns at her even more. Dubhán, however, finally realizing it had been _him_ to cause this, is backing up into the corner. He seems dazed. Emma is at the door.

"Emma sweetheart, go get Daddy a calming draught. One of the yucky ones." She scampers off to do as she's told and returns a moment later with the vial. Harry hands it to Alex. "Drink this, then maybe we can understand what went wrong."

She does, wincing at the familiar taste. She glances at Emma significantly and Harry walks her out of the room and into her own room. A moment later, he returns and she's calm enough to speak clearly. She looks over at Dubhán, who has pushed himself into a corner and is staring at her fearfully. For a moment she thinks of holding onto the information for him. Of dismissively telling Harry it had been nothing, or she'd simply seen him asleep and gotten all choked up, but she knows that isn't healthy for any of them. They're all in this together. They'll all hurting and healing and raging along side each other.

"Harry…_he_ beat him. His back, it's littered with curse marks… " Harry's eyes blaze alive with rage, which he quickly covers before he turns around to Dubhán. He doesn't say anything at all - he simply gets up and walks out of the room. Dubhán begins quaking. She gives him a teary smile. He sinks to his knees and closes his eyes. She wonders if Harry is the hallway cursing silently under a charm, but then he walks back and she realizes he'd gone to get a child's dose of calming draught. He hands it wordlessly to Dubhán, who knocks it back quickly.

No one speaks for a long time. Alex feels a pang of guilt at what Emma must be feeling alone in her room and looks longingly towards the door.

"I called Sirius early," Harry says simply and Alex sighs in relief. So the little girl isn't alone in her room, she's with Sirius, who right now is probably doing some stupid magical trick or stacking fifty scoops of ice cream into a cone in an attempt to distract her. She nods. The clock downstairs signals it is now eight in the morning. Alex should already be at work. Hearing the sound, Harry shakes his head. "I wrote a note and sent it through the floo. You have an hour." She sits down again, nodding. Harry may forget things normally, but he always rises to the occasion when it matters most.

Now Harry turns towards Dubhán, still huddled in the corner, although looking a great deal calmer. "Dubhán…"

"He couldn't very well use the Cruciatus Curse, could he?" Dubhán whispers, his voice hoarse.

"Was there a reason?" Harry grounds out, forcing his voice to sound calm and level. The sort of voice you use with someone you know is about to break.

"I tried to escape…" he says weakly. "Another time…I tried…I tried to _end it_." He looks up at Harry. "I lied…I was never a coward…I just got caught and then…then I was a coward because…I was always afraid of being caught."

**Okay, here is chapter 17. I'm not sure I'm in **_**love**_** with this chapter, but I'm trying to work past a bit of writer's block that's sprung up at the idea of having to write Occlumency lessons. Did I do an okay job? I wanted to get something out on Christmas. :) I wish I had more inspiration for the Occlumency books. I think I will probably have some more in a week and will come back and update more of what he read, but right now it will only frustrate me. **

**Next chapter: Hogwarts! **

**On another note. I know lots of people must like this story (I am being added to favorites and alerts), but why don't you guys review? I know writing isn't measured by reviews, but a little ego boost would be swell as I begin to feel some writer's block around me… you know? More than 30 of your read the last chapter, one person reviewed. **

**Please review? _PLEASE! _**


	18. Severus Snape

Neither the man nor the lady, seem sure what to say to him. They stare down at his curled up form, blinking. He thinks the only thing keeping the lady from sobbing again is the calming draught still in her system. He isn't sure what is going on in Potter's head.

"That wasn't right of him," The man says, kneeling down in front of him. "If you feel the need to _end it_ you can come to us. We can _talk_. No one here will _ever_ use their wand against you, Dubhán." The lady is nodding behind him. "Do you understand, Dubhán? You're not going back to him, we won't let that happen. You're safe."

He stares at the man, trying to control his own emotions. He wants to throw himself at the man. He wants to cry into his shoulder like the lady had. He wants to say "thank you, I appreciate it, even though you can't promise that, I appreciate it". He wants to snuggle against the lady and feel her arms around him. He wants to pretend, for a moment, that he is safe. He wants to be weak. But he can't.

He can't do any of that, because he still can't protect his memories from Voldemort, and no matter their intentions, they can't promise he won't be found. Hadn't the Death Eaters gotten him once already? If they bring him back to Voldemort, he will see _this_ and know Dubhán is a worthless traitor. He gulps and looks up at Potter pleadingly. He tries to put the thoughts in the forefront of his mind.

"I can't _say_." Potter blinks once, then twice, then his eyes go wide. Dubhán keeps his eyes on Potter's trying to pass the message. Finally Potter lifts his wand, giving him one final questioning look. Dubhán looks at him, pleadingly.

"Legilimens!" Potter whispers. Dubhán feels him at the edge of his thoughts, treading lightly. Dubhán thinks of everything he'd been thinking before. How he wants to be weak, how he wants to be close to them, how he knows he can't, how he knows he'd be a traitor if he did. Potter withdraws from his mind quickly.

"We'll stop by Severus's office today," he says flatly. "But you've already got a wall there. Perhaps Severus can tell you how to fine tune the wall." He goes over to the lady and whispers with her for a second. Dubhán thinks they must have put a silencing charm up around them. He stands up and waits for them to finish.

When they're done, the lady comes over and says goodbye to him and kisses him softly atop his head, he stands still, careful to not suggest he _wants_ the contact. Even he knows that letting Potter into his mind – that hinting at his desire for him to enter his mind, would be something Voldemort could see. Yet, he thought he could probably hide that much more easily then if he had spoken those thoughts aloud.

"Get dressed, alright? I'll show you where the kitchen at Hogwarts is – the elves there will be more than happy to make you some breakfast to go." He leaves the room and closes the door.

Dubhán pulls on his trousers and a robe and looks in his mirror, parting his hair. He doesn't want to look terrible, if he's going to Hogwarts! He tucks his wand into a pocket designed for just that. Once his wand is tucked inside the pocket, which is a long rectangle starting mid-thigh laid onto his trouser pants outer seam, the pocket looks as if it is empty. The trousers, of course, are spelled.

Potter is in the hallway waiting for him. They walk to the floo together and Harry shouts "Dumbledore's Office" before letting Dubhán step through. Dubhán has never been through the floo alone and he tumbles out and Potter, coming through quickly, almost trips over him.

When Potter helps him up, he notices the man sitting behind the large desk – Dumbledore. He's on his chocolate frogs. For a moment he has the unspeakable urge to hide behind Potter's leg like an infant.

"Hello, sir." He says instead, using his politest voice with that certain lilt that Voldemort most likes. He holds his head just right. Voldemort would call it 'regal' or 'important'. Dumbledore's eyebrows rise behind his spectacles.

"Hello, Mr. Potter," he says softly. "How are you this morning?"

"I am afraid I cannot possibly answer your question how you certainly wish, sir." He looks up at the man.

"I see. So I take it you are not doing very well?"

"I did not say those words, or outwardly imply such a thing. I merely said I could not give you the answer you seek, sir." Behind him, Potter is frowning.

"Well, I do hope someday soon you will be able to answer my question." Dubhán nods. Dumbledore smiles.

"Dubhán?" Potter asks and the boy turns to him. "I need to speak to Albus. Will you wait for me in the waiting room?" The boy nods. When he enters it is empty, but half an hour later, a young boy comes in.

"I've got a message from a professor, do you know if he's busy?" The boy asks. He looks like a first year.

"Dumbledore is speaking with someone," he says simply. The boy visibly slumps and takes a seat across from him.

"Suppose I'll just be waiting, then," he says softly. A moment later he lifts his head and frowns at Dubhán. "Don't think I know you, but you look like a first year like me…"

"I'm eight. I'm here with Mr. Potter."

The boy's eyebrows shoot up. "Harry Potter? What cha doin' with him?" The boy asks quickly.

"He brought me along with him, but obviously they're speaking about something I shouldn't hear, so I'm sitting here." _Listening to your ask stupid questions._ He kept the last thought to himself, though.

"Are you…are you the lost Potter boy?" He asks tentatively.

"I'm not _lost_," he replies, prickling defensively.

"No I mean…" the boy looks left and right at the portraits surround them. He stands up and sits down next to him. "Are you the boy that You-Know-Who lost? You know, the Potter boy?"

Dubhán narrows his eyes at the boy then lowers his gaze to examine his house crest. He's a Slytherin.

"What would you know about that?" The boy shrugs.

"I heard somethin' about it over summer break is all. So, are you?"

"What's you're last name?"

"Why?"

"What's your last name?"

"Bowman," he says tensely. Dubhán runs the name through his head and realizes he's sitting across from a Death Eater's son. Not a high ranking Death Eater, but a Death Eater non-the-less. He leans forward.

"Hogwarts lets you send letters home, yeah?" The boy nods, still looking a bit put-out after Dubhán's demanding tone. "I need you to send a message to your father for me. He'll know what to do with it."

The boy is peering at him closely. "So you _are_ the lost Potter boy." Dubhán nods, ignoring the 'lost' part.

"I need you to write your dad and say "I saw Dubhán at Hogwarts. He wanted me to pass his appearance along."

"That's it?"

"Yes. I haven't got anymore information that would be helpful. You can tell them I'm unplotable, but I'm sure they know that already. Can you remember that?"

"Why should I do this?"

"Because The Dark Lord will reward your father." The boy looked at him for a moment then nodded. "Now go sit back there and pretend we haven't been talking." The boy nods again and reseats himself across the room. Ten minutes later, Potter comes walking through the door. He says hello to the other boy, who replies likewise, and then beckons Dubhán out of the room.

They stop at a picture of fruit and when Potter tickles the pear the portrait door slides to the side and reveals the Hogwart's kitchens. The house elves within turn to the newcomers and seeing it is "Harry Potter" crowd around, cheering. One elf, a _dressed_ elf comes over to them and jumps up and down in joy.

"Oh, Dobby is happy to be seeing Harry Potter. Dobby got Harry Potter's card about Harry Potter's son being found and Dobby is very happy for Harry Potter!" The elf turned to him "Oh, Dobby is happy, happy to be seeing you okay, Harry Potter's son!" Dubhán scrunches up his face at being referred to in such a way.

"Dobby, can I ask a favor?"

"Harry Potter can be asking Dobby _anything_ and Dobby is doing it, right away!"

"Could you make Dubhán some breakfast, something he can take with him?" Dobby dashes away and comes back with a breakfast sandwich, partially wrapped in paper. Dubhán thanks him for it.

"Oh, Dobby is happy to be helping Harry Potter's son! Happy, Happy, Happy!" Harry says something to him and then they leave through the portrait hole and begin heading towards Professor Snape's Office.

The Professor hadn't exactly volunteered to teach him back in the kitchen, and Potter didn't seem that keen on the idea, but Dubhán knew this man had to be the best for the job. He'd survived his Grandfather, after all. He'd lied to him, spied against him, given just enough information about the other side to infuriate Voldemort, at least that was what the other Death Eaters said. He was also rough and hard and more likely to sneer if Dubhán failed then try to comfort him, and _that_ was comforting. Dubhán hadn't quite come to understand the man and the lady's coddling behavior, as much as he might occasionally desire to participate. Snape's rules were clear and they were void of emotions and that suited Dubhán just fine. He knew how to please men like Snape, even though they were unlikely to tell him he had done so.

"Here we go. He'll have a class though, so we'll just wait." Potter leans against the door and smiles at him. Dubhán leans against the opposite wall and looks at his feet, thinking of what he had read last night.

"Nervous?" Potter asks kindly, after a long silence. Dubhán tries to examine his emotions, something he's well used to doing. Finally, he nods, just once. "It'll be okay," Harry says. "He's not as mean as he acts."

"On the contrary, Mr. Potter. My actions only show a fraction of my true capacity to be ill-tempered." Potter actually throws his head back and laughs; Dubhán thinks he is more than a little foolish. Dubhán, himself, chooses to keep his head bowed. The Professor steps over to the door and opens it up. "Well, do come in. I won't have the famous Harry Potter standing outside my door – your mere presence is likely to attract all the dunderheads to my door, which I will _not have_." So they step inside and Potter seats himself on a chair. Dubhán follows suit.

"I came asking for a favor," Potter begins. Snape snorts.

"I owe you no favors, Mr. Potter," he reminds, his eyes on the parchments he'd been carrying. He's unfolding them, laying them out on the surface of his desk.

"I didn't ask for a repayment, I asked for a favor. I would owe _you."_ Potter says, a bit tensely.

"A Potter openly admitting to owing _me?_" Snape looks up. "Now this sounds intriguing. James Potter is probably rolling in his grave."

"Yeah, well, I have no problem owing you. You're the one with the grudge against me, not the other way around. Now, I came asking a favor. I've tried finding someone to teach Dubhán Occlumency, but there simply isn't anyone as talented on you that I can get to as quickly. So I'm asking if you would teach him."

Snape looks up from his papers slowly, eying the boy closely. Instead of shrinking under the regard, the boy straightens up and peers back.

"I'm sure he has as much propensity as you yourself do, Mr. Potter," Snape said dismissively, "which will make my teaching him a moot point. He'll never be able to master the art."

"Sir?" Both adults turn to his small, but confident, voice. "I'm not Potter. I'm _Devlin_. Please, sir? Maybe…maybe you'd do it for _her?"_ Potter is frowning in confusion, but the Potion Master has gone Muggle-paper white. They look at each other from across the desk for a long moment.

"What do you know about that, boy?" He's seething. Dubhán thinks carefully. He won't say anything definite in front of Potter – he doesn't think Snape would appreciate it.

"I know enough to know what I'm talking about," he says simply, keeping the man's regard. The Potion Master's jaw is clenched.

"I will entertain the idea and owl you in the morning," he says softly. "Now leave!"

**Clearly I have ended this chapter right before the scene I am most dreading, but I have begun drafting that scene and think I'll be okay…I think. Hope everyone had a great Holiday weekend. :) **

**I was delighted to see that someone new reviewed! Please do review – the ego boost is nice! And it really did help get me feeling like I could confront this scene, even though it was the less dreaded of the two. :) **

**Alright, so I'll leave you with two words: Please Review! **


	19. The Letter

Dubhán sits down at the table the next morning and stares at the open kitchen window while he eats eggs and sausage. He's seen both adults get mail through the window and he knows this is where Potter feeds the snowy owl he calls Hedwig, but there hasn't been a flutter or a hoot all morning. He looks at his plate – he's only got a few bites left. Potter finally walks through the door. He mumbles something about not working finally getting to his sleeping habits.

"Do you think he just decided to ignore me?" Dubhán says out loud to anyone who cares.

"He's probably just waiting until breakfast is over in the Great Hall before he brings his post to the owls."

"Do you think he'll say yes?"

Potter lifts his coffee and takes a sip before answering, seeming to choose his words carefully.

"You never know with Snape, Dubhán."

Dubhán eats another couple bites of egg, looking depressingly at his final piece of sausage. He's just bringing it to his mouth when a brown owl lands on the windowsill and gives an impatient hoot. His fork clatters onto the plate as he rushes to get up and untie the message. Written on the envelope in tight neat scrawl is 'Devlin Potter'. He rips it open quickly, ignoring the quiet laughter behind him from Potter. He doesn't think Potter gets how serious this is.

_Mr. Potter,_

_I have given your request it's due thought and come to the decision that I will teach you Occlumency on the condition that you are, unlike your father, at least marginally capable of the art. If you cannot prove this to me during the first session, then there will not be another one. I expect you to know what Occlumency and Legilimenecy mean. Tell Potter to bring you to my office tonight, at 6pm. If anyone questions your visit have Potter use his old excuse. _

_Severus Snape. _

He looks up and gives a shaky smile, clutching at the letter.

"He says he'll do it if I can prove I'm better at it than you, in the first session. He also says that if anyone asks why we're there, for you to use your old excuse." Potter's face goes sour.

"He's still a git," he mumbles into his coffee. "What time?"

"6pm tonight!"

"Wonderful…" Alex is chuckling lightly behind her work papers.

_OoOoOoOoOo_

"Come in." The voice behind the door is cool with an edge of impatience. Alexandra pushes the door open, Dubhán following close behind her. For a moment Severus seems surprised to see her. He stands and wraps his cloak around him, crossing his arms in an imposing way. "Did your husband decide he didn't want to spend his evening in my presence?"

"No, I decided _you_ wouldn't want to spend _your_ evening in _his _presence," she says kindly, smiling.

"I see." Dubhán guesses this is his way of saying 'you're right', since otherwise he surely would have made her aware of her mistake. "And what do you intent to do with your evening?"

"Finish off a report for work in a corner here. I'll stay out of the way."

"I did not expect to have to entertain _two_ people," he says scathingly. "Surely the brat is old enough that he doesn't need his mother within reach."

"He is, but it is either me sitting here or Harry," she makes to rise from a seat she's pulled into a corner. "I can call him if you'd like, of course."

"No," Snape drawls, "that will be far from necessary." She smirks knowingly at Snape. Dubhán watches the interaction; he doesn't know why she has to be there either, but since he'd already heard Potter argue with her earlier, he decides not to add his own opinions. He'll live with her presence.

"Before we start," Dubhán says softly, drawing Snapes attention away from Alexandra and over to him, "I'd like to get your word that whatever you see…it will just be between us." Snape regards him for a long moment.

"I will not speak of what I see in another's presence, but I will not take responsibility for anything you mutter unawares."

"People do that?" Dubhán asks nervously, taking a step back. Perhaps this hadn't been such a good idea…

"Not all people. Throw me out early enough and it won't happen." He raises his wand. "Now, on the count of three, I will try to penetrate your mind."

Dubhán begins breathing quickly, his heart racing. It had been one thing to realize the man would see things, but to realize he might inadvertently speak about them with his Mum sitting over there…

"One, two, three – _Legilimenecy!"_

There is a pressure at the edge of his thoughts, like the first sign of a headache. The room around him is swaying, like he'd been put under the Imperius, except that he's still aware and as fearful as before. He clenches his teeth, trying to keep his frame of mind about him.

Snapes eyes disappear. He's cold now. No, the _ground_ is cold. He's close to the ground. He's a wolf, creeping along the ground. _Sneaking_. Trying to get somewhere important. Trying to get to-

_NO! _

He growls and his wolf comes forward, throwing Snape out violently. He looks up. The professor is looking wearily at him.

"While effective," Snape says, "that is not the way we're learning. Please refrain your feral inclinations. _You _have to learn how to do this, not count on brute strength from your wolf." He nods, blowing out a breath and inhaling deeply. _Don't think. Don't feel. Just do what you have to do. _

"One, two, three – _Legilimenecy!"_

The room sways, but he narrows his eyes and brings everything into focus again. He breathes again. He feels out the spot where the headache is approaching and builds his own pressure, pushing it away. It pushes back and breaks through.

"_Crucio." Pain. It is inside him. It is on his skin. In his eyes. On his lips. In his bones and their marrow. It is __**everywhere. **__He can feel it __searing his nerves as it rushes through him. It's in his mind and he can hardly think of anything but it, the pain. His limbs want to thrash around. He makes them tense and tries desperately to keep command over them…he must not scream. _

"Devlin!" It is the lady, she is shouting. He wonders why she is shouting, until he realizes that he is on his knees with his head thrown back, screaming. He collapses. Above him the lady is saying words to the professor and he knows she's worried.

"M'okay," he mumbles, rising to his knees. "Do it again. I'll do better." He stands up, swaying on his knees. Snape is looking weary again and for a moment Dubhán thinks he sees concern in those eyes. He hopes the man will keep his word.

"Dubhán, sweety-" It's the lady. He knows what she's going to say.

"Please, sir. I can do better. I'm fine." He straightens himself up.

"Let's see about that, Mr. Potter," despite his words, Dubhán think he's forcing himself to lift his wand again. His mind is buzzing with alertness and caution. He can feel it zooming this way and that way, paranoid about the exterior force that it knows is about to penetrate it's defenses. "_Legilimenecy._"

He swallows hard. He has to over-come this. _Don't think. Don't feel. Just do what you have to do. _He tries to picture wind inside his mind, rushing in gusts at the penetrating force, keeping it at bay. All of a sudden Snapes spell lifts and Dubhán, who had been leaning forward slightly, falls to his knees.

"That will be enough for tonight." Snape stretches out a hand and lifts him up. "Your mind was defending itself by the end, but you have to curtail the verbal walk-through your giving yourself. Occlumency, when done in front Voldemort, must be done discretely."

"Yes, sir."

"We will resume this after the weekend. Mrs. Potter, you may owl me some good times for you and I will select one."

"Of course, Severus. Thank you."

**Hope you liked it! I think it turned out okay, although I still think I could have done better. I'm re-reading the 5****th**** book's Occlumency parts. I might polish it a bit more after getting a couple more chapters done. By the way, In the process of writing this chapter, I ended up with some silly snippets and some not so silly ones. The silly ones I may post, like a conversation between Severus and Lily regarding the name Devlin. The not so silly one will play a big part in the upcoming chapters (although a far bit away).  
><strong>

**If you liked reading it, please drop a review saying so! :) **


	20. Sometimes Fear is Important

This time it is Potter and he who knock on Snape's door. Dubhán looks nervously at Potter's profile as they wait in front of the door. He expects Snape won't be at all pleased to see the man, especially since he won't be expecting him. Alexandra had brought him the last four times, but she had gotten called into work.

"Come in," drawls the professor. Potter opens the door and Dubhán purposely trails slowly behind him; he wants to put some space between Potter's unwanted face and his merely-tolerated one. "Potter…" The one word seems to sum up Snape's feelings entirely too well for Dubhán's comfort.

"Hello, Severus." Snape's eyes narrow.

"I have asked you, time and again, Potter, for you to call me Snape."

"Yeah, you have," Potter says, shrugging, "But you're not my professor anymore and besides, I try to make a point to you that _I _don't have a grudge anymore…"

"If that were true, Potter, then you would follow my simple request, unless you are merely unable to follow any directions at all…"

"I'm plenty able to follow directions that have a purpose, Severus." Potter says, his voice calm and almost cheery. Snape scowls.

"Stop pretending to be Albus, Potter. It doesn't suit you." And then those endless black orbs are turning to him. Subconsciously Dubhán inches away from Potter, as if to say 'remember I'm not him'.

"You have managed, Devlin, to construct an adequate wall, but it has not proven strong enough to hold up to pressure on my end. Therefore, we will no longer be playing 'fairly'. I will attack your mind without counting down and you will do whatever you can to get rid of me. I would _prefer_ you got rid of me with your mind, but it is acceptable to do _anything_." He looks him up and down. "Of course, that won't be very much, considering you are eight and unarmed. I will not stop until you stop me, do you understand?"

Dubhán swallows hard. Anxiously he rubs his hands on his thighs, checking to see if he'd packed his wand. He had. Worst come to worst, he could reveal he _wasn't_ unarmed. He nods.

"What about my wolf?"

"I will count that as the _anything_ but not preferable category." Dubhán nods. He looks at Potter, whose sitting right next to them, unlike his Mum does. "Mum doesn't sit there," he says softly to Potter, trying to be discrete. Potter looks up so sharply that Dubhán expects him to begin yelling in argument.

"What did you say?"

"She doesn't sit there…can't you…sit in the corner like she does?" Potter is grinning ear-to-ear and Dubhán wonders what has gotten into him.

"Yeah, alright." And he gets up and moves into the corner. "Do I at least get to _watch?_" He asks sarcastically. Dubhán gives him a significant look and Potter begins grinning again. "Okay, okay, I'll shut up." Dubhán sighs in relief.

Dubhán has barely turned his head around to face Snape when it happens. _"Legilimenecy"_.

"_You have to focus!" Comes a cold hard voice. It sounds bored. "You have to __**feel**__the magic in you; feel it seeping from your fingers and out into the world to do your bidding.' He feels himself swallow hard. There are dark green eyes regarding him from a corner of the tent. _

"_Wingardium Leviosa." He tries hard not to fumble the words and focuses all his attention on the feather in front of him. He __**has**__ to make it float. He can't be weak. He shuts his eyes and tries to simply pretend it is in the air. When he opens his eyes he grins and jumps into the air, joining his feather for the briefest of moments. He spins around to look at the man in the corner. "I did it! I did it Grandfather." The green eyes stay perfectly neutral. _

"_It is only a feather, Dubhán," Voldemort says, dismissively. "Surely you did not expect that you were incapable of lifting a simple feather wandlessly?" His chest falls. He had felt, for a moment, that he had finally proven himself as __**something.**__ He spins around and glares at the feather. _

"_Wingardium Leviosa!" He says firmly, focusing on a book that the teacher had set on a table. It rises in the air. "Wingardium Leviosa!" And now a chair is in the air. "Wingardium Leviosa!" And now four books are floating. He's angry and frustrated and it's making it easier to pull his magic to the surface. Perhaps if he could make every single thing in the room float, Voldemort would be happy! _

_But no, he could never make him happy enough, and it was __**stupid**__to think about it too much…_he shoves the ideas away from himself and, in doing so, shoves Snape out of his mind too.

He's on the ground, on his knees. Around the room, potion jars are floating in midair. Snape is glaring at all of the potion jars. Potter is looking awed.

"If you could simply control your mind as well as you control your magic, Devlin, then maybe we'd be progressing." He's sneering. "Now put my things back immediately." Dubhán looks around him and notices the desks are floating too. He gulps and waves his hand: the jars reseat themselves on their shelves, the desks land gently on the stone floor, the couple chairs fall to the ground and reseat themselves under their desk.

"Sorry, sir," Dubhán mumbles.

"You should try and figure out why you can manage enough focus to do _that_ but not Occlumency!" Snape says scathingly.

"But, sir…that's nothing special. Occlumency is a difficult art to master and…I may simply not be good enough at it…"

"Dubhán, that wasn't-" Snape sends a glare at Potter, who dared to open his mouth and speak.

"Thank you Mr. Potter, but _I _am currently teaching your son. Your only job is to make sure I do not kill him, as you obviously think I might, considering your presence. You are not to speak." Potter glares and looks impatiently at Snape. Snape is looking at Dubhán now, who isn't sure he likes the thoughtful expression on his face.

"In all honesty I believe your problem lies far from yourself and your abilities. You do not wear your emotions on your sleeve like your father. You are _trying_, unlike your father. Your mother is capable of Occlumency. _However_ your mind does not innately resist me. You command it to resist, certainly, but it is _used_ to being invaded and so, in the end, it submits. The Dark Lord has been using _Legilimenecy _on you for so long that you have simply stopped reacting. You reacted to me in the beginning, I believe, simply because I was different from The Dark Lord, but you did not continue to fight me."

"But how do I fix that, sir?"

"There are going to be two changes in the way we play this game, Mr. Potter." Dubhán doesn't like his tone of voice. "First of all," he says, touching one of his fingers to indicate 'one', "I am no longer going to just attack what is at the surface of your mind and two," another finger is bent backwards, "I will no longer promise to keep what I see, secret. You have to _fear_ me being in your mind, and since that was your one request, not respecting it should make you fear me invading your thoughts." Dubhán backs away from the man.

"You can't do that. There are things I-"

"Then, Mr. Potter, protect them! _Legilimenecy!"_

Dubhán's mind recognizes Snapes presence immediately. The memory of his words haunt him and his mind throws them around. _'I will no longer promise to keep what I see, secret'_. The neurons in his brain fire one after the other, trying to communicate the desperate news. For a moment it almost feels like a seizure is about to begin, but then he realizes it's just the anxiety and desperation making him shake.

"_Geoffrey?"_

"_Hmm?"_

"_If everyone takes Wolfbanes, how come we always get locked in?"_

"_Because even a dosed werewolf can hurt if they want to." _

It's such an unimportant memory and Dubhán can see Snape frowning.

"_I dreamed about the lady again…"_

"_I see…"_

"_She was singing…"_

Dubhán shakes his head and the room sways at the motion.

"_Grandfather, come see this!" And he's pulling the man into his bedroom and pointing at the ceiling. "I made the book page go onto the ceiling and made everything colorful!" Up on his ceiling is the night sky and it is revolving and sparkling and so beautiful. And his Grandfather's face is actually smiling. _

Snape is still frowning, the lines getting deeper and deeper. Then several things occur to him: Snape's frown, the room swaying, and his own shaking. He can still hear, feel and see! He clenches his jaw. But Snape is pushing more and more, coming closer and closer to his secrets and it is getting harder to hide them from him and he knows soon he will see _her. _

"No," he whispers, his voice so soft he barely believes he's said it except that his jaw moved. "I won't let you tell him." He ties to remember what it felt like to cast the charm on that feather and imagines casting it in his mind, making Snape float away from his thoughts. He closes his eyes and distantly realizes when he falls down and curls up on the stone floor. Snape is pushing relentlessly. He pushes back with his wind, fast and faster until his head is pounding and he can't think of anything else. And then Potter is next to him and there is a wet towel on his head and Snape is sitting down on a chair near by. He raises his head and get to his knees; sure he has failed.

"I can do better, I swear." Once more, he gets to his feet. Once more he straightens himself out. Once more he tries to look stronger than he feels.

"We're done, Devlin. I'm done."

"But I can do it! I promise. Please give me another chance." Snape looks at him sharply.

"I know you can do it, you stupid child. _I _am done because I need to stop. I did not stop until _you_ stopped me and it took a good forty minutes for you to stop me." Realization dawns in Dubhán's eyes and he begins to smile.

"I stopped you?" Snape nods grudgingly.

"I suppose your mind cannot be completely empty, for you to protect it as you did." Snape is looking like he is torn between hatred and concern but at that moment Dubhán doesn't care. His mind is his own. He did it.

**Hope you liked this chapter. I think I did a better job this time. :)**

**Please review! Please Review! **

**The next chapter, which will jump time a little, will really start us moving on in the story. Soon we'll be seeing Draco Malfoy (if you remember he has a book for Devlin), learning more about 'her' (any guesses anyone?) and seeing some more positive Harry/Devlin interactions. :) **


	21. Too Wolfish

"Dad?" There, he'd let himself say it – what has he to fear? Snape says he can now produce a formidable shield and hide things discretely. He can say and do whatever he wants. He reminds himself to once in a while call his Dad 'the man' or 'sir' so he'll have memories to feed Voldemort, should he need to. But right now, he's enjoying the way the man – his Dad – jumps in his chair and spills cereal all over him. Emma is sitting with a spoon, full of oatmeal, frozen halfway to her mouth. His Mum is smiling quietly behind her newspaper, as if she'd been expecting this very thing. His Dad is coughing now, trying to look at him seriously and kindly and _casually_ and messing the image up horribly with his coughing and wide eyes.

"Erm, yes Dubhán?"

"I was thinking, sir: since I can protect my mind now, I'd like to be called Devlin again. I got used to it when Snape kept calling me that. It's a nice name." He looks down at his hands.

"That's wonderful!" Harry says and almost flings his arms around Dubhán –Devlin- only to stop in sudden realization. "Erm, sorry." Devlin inclines his head in acknowledgement. He looks up into his father's eyes and sees the sadness in them, and Devlin finds he really does care, not a little, but a lot, what he's thinking and feeling. He gets up, while Harry is busy looking at Alex, and climbs into his lap. He feels as if he's probably far to old for this type of thing, but when Harry's arms wrap around him and his breath comes hot and comforting by his neck, Devlin can't help but sink into the embrace.

0-O-0-0-O-0-0-O-0-0-O-0-0-O-0

One night, when Dubhán is on the cusp of sleep, he hears footsteps. His wolf ears perk up just at the same moment that Zee's do. Together they stare at the door. Together they walk lightly towards it and together, they listen. The footsteps are far too light to be a grown mans and there only seems to be one pair. Together Dubhán and Zee relax a millimeter.

The footsteps are closer and then they're turning a knob – his Mum and Dad's bedroom door. They tense together, giving each other the briefest of looks. Zee is fidgeting with his front lets and he lets the briefest sound escape his mouth. Oddly, he doesn't seem_ that_ concerned anymore. He's fidgeting more like he's worried for another reason. Dubhán turns back to the door.

"Mummy?" He hears a voice say, Emma's voice. He sighs. But what is she doing? He listens as she tells them she's had a nightmare and he listens to her weeping and their comforting, all with a morbid type of fascination. Finally Zee's impatience pulls him away from the door and back into bed. He dare not transform. He knows he'll dream of pretty blue eyes.

0-O-0-0-O-0-0-O-0-0-O-0-0-O-0

Sirius and Lupin and the bushy haired girl who he knows is Hermione, and a redheaded man he has never met, come over to dinner one night. They all call him Devlin and he finds his mind spinning with the name, and he finds he likes it. Lupin sits near him and every once in a while Devlin will pull on his shirt and ask him a whispered question about someone at the table or something they're talking about. Lupin always answers. He realizes he's beginning to think of Lupin as his Geoffrey and the thought makes him linger on his old Guard.

"What happened to Geoffrey?" He hadn't meant to say the words; they spilled past his tongue with such speed that he hadn't been aware they'd transferred from his mind to the world until everyone turns to him at once. He shrinks under the regards. His Dad clears his throat.

"He's being held at Hogwarts, for his own safety." Potter looks around the table, observing the awkward silence.

"Has he…asked about me?" The redhead, Ronald, begins fidgeting with his plate; giving Harry glances that Harry seems intent not to answer.

"I, ah, haven't spent much time with him, Devlin."

"Are they torturing him? If he brought me to you, you probably don't need to do that to get information from him…" His brow is knitted tightly together and his little face seems so concerned and certain that they must be torturing him. As if it is a common thing to do. Harry swallows and looks away, making his decision.

"No, we're not. Ron could tell you more. He shares guard duty with some others."

Devlin's eyes swerve over to Ron and Ron pales under the scrutiny. Harry knows Ron wants some direction from him about what to talk about and what not to talk about, but Harry knows he can't give that to him in front of Devlin.

"Is he okay?" Devlin asks first and Ron gives a sharp nod, his mouth full of food.

"Yeah, we're treating him alright, kiddo. He's a bit bored, but I played chess with him."

"He doesn't like chess. He is very poor at it."

"He did say that. But it's one of the only games I know how to summon from Hogwarts."

"Oh." He moves his food around a bit. "Has he said anything about me?"

"His usual guards aren't, erm, family friends so whenever I'm there, or ah, certain others are, he tries to pry whatever information he can from us – course nicely! But, I've only just met you tonight so I couldn't do much for him. Told him Harry can't stop talking about you and he says you're doing well – that type of thing. Think he was hoping for more first hand information, if you know what I mean." His voice trails off. Devlin nods and doesn't bring it up again.

Everyone eats dinner and makes quiet small talk and then moves to the living room where the adults play some card games and Sirius and Devlin and Emma play 'who can catch the snitch' until Alex tells them to stop running in the house. Devlin thinks she waited until he'd gotten one point ahead of Sirius and he sends her a secret smile from where she is talking to Hermione. Ron and Lupin are the first to leave, then Hermione and finally Sirius. With the floo powder in his hand he pauses and turns. "Hey Harry, are you guys going to be at the annual Ministry Ball? I know you practically _have_ to go, but didn't know if you wanted me to kid-sit for you?"

"Actually, we're hoping to all go this year. I'll owl you about it." And thus Devlin had something new to occupy his thoughts.

0-O-0-0-O-0-0-O-0-0-O-0-0-O-0

Dumbledore is standing in his bedroom, warding it. Devlin watches him nervously. Potter is beside him, doing the same. They had said something about wards needing renewing and how they hadn't been since Devlin was four. Devlin knows what they really mean: it's almost your Moon-Day and we don't trust you even with Wolfsbane. It sits, freshly brewed by Severus Snape, on his bedside table. He can't remember ever transforming alone…

When Dumbledore is done helping him he comes over and tries to talk to him about candy, but Devlin associates candy with potions and so they don't really interest him. And he hates the feeling of socks.

"Well then, my boy, how about your studies? I must say you're the first eight year old with a wand I've ever met." The words take Potter, still on the other side of the room, a moment to process and then he's spinning around quickly.

"He doesn't have a wand, Albus," Harry says dismissively although Devlin can hear the doubt creeping at the edge of his voice.

"Well of course he does! It's right there in his pocket, although that is a wonderful concealment charm, no doubt." Devlin cringes and, knowing he is caught, pulls the wand out. Potter is all at once outraged, surprised, and sad. The emotions in his eyes unsettle Devlin. He wonders how to measure their disappointment. How is he to tell _how_ in trouble he is in by those eyes?

"Devlin, you should have told me that!"

"I was keeping it a secret incase I needed it." _To escape…_

"If you had used it, the ministry would have known." Devlin shakes his head.

"No, sir. It's charmed to be untraceable. Please don't take it…I do know how to defend myself with it…" Potter seems to take a deep breath.

"A wand for the boy wouldn't be amiss, Harry, if he does indeed know how to use one…but this one may have different tracing charms on it." Devlin frowns. He hadn't thought of the wand that way at all and suddenly he shoves it onto his bedside table, horrified.

In the end Dumbledore takes it with him to check if it is free of magical tracers and promises to bring it back if it is clean.

0-O-0-0-O-0-0-O-0-0-O-0-0-O-0

They are letting him see Geoffrey. He swallows nervously as his father leads him through Hogwarts. He had said they were going to the Headmaster's office and when they finally reach a door guarded by stone gargoyles, he is sure they have reached their destination.

Devlin walks onto the staircase when Harry opens the door, but his father stops him. "They move by themselves," he says and keeps a hand on Devlin's shoulder, steadying him. The weight on his shoulder keeps him rooted in reality.

The door at the top looks foreboding, but Devlin knows that is only because he knows what lay behind it. His father opens the door without any hesitation and gives Devlin a little push into the office.

Geoffrey is sitting in front of a large desk, talking softly to Dumbledore, seated behind the desk. When his father shuts the door, Geoffrey's eyes spin around and he smiles.

"Dubhán!" He almost shouts. Devlin doesn't bother to correct him. He retreats a little, feeling childish and nervous. He had told his father, yesterday, that he had wanted to see Geoffrey. He'd pleaded and whined and used the word 'Daddy' which seemed to make Harry agree to _anything_ these days. And he had relented, but only after Devlin had promised to be polite, not to call him a traitor, and to keep a level head. And he had meant what he had said. But right now Devlin can't help but feel conflicted and so he glares defensively, uncertainly, and nervously. Could he really forgive Geoffrey? He'd done something Devlin hadn't wanted him too, even if now Devlin could see his point of view.

"Devlin, be _polite_," his father whispers in his ear. 'Polite' is always the word he seems to use whenever he really means 'stop being so wolfish'. Devlin knows he love him, despite the fact that he's a werewolf, but he also thinks Remus wasn't entirely right when he said Harry was so different from Remus's own parents. Devlin rather thought it pained his father every time his behavior reminded him and he also rather thought that he'd like it better if he were the type of werewolf Remus was, or the Healer. But he wasn't a dog! He turns to look at _Potter _and growls lowly.

"No," he says gruffly.

Harry looks out of his comfort zone. He obviously doesn't know what to do, even though he knows from Devlin's own words that he doesn't want to be coddled. That he needs some direction. That he wasn't supposed to simply let him do this.

Harry still remembers last Thursay's dinner: when he had jokingly told Emma that he "was the boss of this family" when she had turned to her mother to ask if 'Daddy was allowed to let Devlin fly on a broom'. Devlin had turned to him, entirely too serious, and said "No you're not."

Trying to dispel the seriousness about him, Harry had said, "well then who do you think is the boss?" Devlin had looked between Alex and himself and finally said: "I don't think there is a boss. Not of me."

But how is he supposed to be a boss to a werewolf? Emma certainly knew he and Alex were her bosses, but Devlin didn't, because what conveyed that to Emma didn't convey the same to Devlin. Devlin didn't care if you took things from him, or sent him to his room, or made him write lines. These were all punishments, but they didn't tell him who was the boss. When Harry had sent him to his room for calling Hermione a Mudblood Devlin had asked, "why?" and he had said, "Because I'm your father." And then, looking hurt and uncertain and so much more like the four year old that been taken from him, he had said: "Anyone can punish me. Anyone can hurt me."

Over on the other side of the room, Geoffrey rises from his chair and comes over. He grabs hold of Devlin's hand and spins him around to face him. For a moment Harry feels the desperate need to pull the boy back towards him and hug him to his chest – that anyone who touches him might take him from him again. He shakes himself and tries to listen to what Geoffrey is saying.

He is glaring at Devlin as he drags him over to a chair. Even as the words "sit down" leave his mouth, he doesn't give the child a chance to sit down; he picks him up and sits him down. Harry would have crouched at Devlin's eye level to talk to him about his behavior, but Geoffrey stands up straighter, towering over the child almost purposefully.

"What did he say to you?" Harry waits for Devlin's low growl, but it never comes. Those piercing eyes lower and he begins to fidget with his hands.

"He said to be polite," he whispers.

"And what did you do?" There is no anger in Geoffrey's voice, but there also isn't any kindness.

"I…I said no."

"I didn't ask what you said. I asked what you _did_."

"I growled."

"Is he a werewolf?" The boy frowns slightly and then shakes his head. "What do you imagine your behavior meant to him?"

"That I was going to hurt him?"

"Certainly that you didn't wish to follow his direction."

"But…"

"That word but isn't part of this. Explain yourself in an organized way."

"I wasn't being _impolite!" _Devlin says sharply.

"Mr. Potter, was Dubhán being impolite, in your opinion?" Harry had been so mesmerized by the way Devlin interacted with Geoffrey, that he is surprised to be dragged into the act.

"Well, yes," he says. "He was glaring at you. He was the one who asked to see you."

"Dubhán, explain to Mr. Potter your defense."

"Glaring at Geoffrey wasn't impolite, sir. I wasn't being mean. I was just showing my uncertainty."

"Well then why did you growl at me!"

"Because whenever you say: "be polite" that's not what you mean!" He takes a deep breath. "You mean: "stop being so wolfish" and you promised I could be myself, so I said _no, _because you weren't keeping your promise!"

Harry is tries to process the information; meanwhile Geoffrey turns the boy to look at him again.

"Dubhán?" The boy nods. "We can say a lot to each other while saying and doing very little, but Mr. Potter isn't the same way. You have to pause and say the things that are running through your head to him. Instead of translating the thought "no, I'm going to be myself, you said I could" into wolf language, say it out loud instead. Go back and try it again."

"Yes, Geoffrey." He slinks back to the door, stands his body next to Harry and looks up at the man. In a stage whisper he says "Geoffrey means we have to pretend to do it again, all of it." Too surprised at Devlin's tone of voice and kind look, Harry simply nods.

Again, the stage whisper: "You have to say the polite thing again, while I glare at Geoffrey".

So Harry Potter, the Boy-who-lived, the Savior of the Wizarding World, and Head Auror, acts out the scenario again. Only this time when he whispers: "Devlin, be _polite_," Devlin doesn't begin growling at him. Instead he says back, softly but deadly.

"You said I could be myself. I'm not being impolite to Geoffrey, it's wolf-talk."

"I'll trust you, but if Geoffrey says he is uncomfortable, then you will owe everyone in the room an apology." Devlin seems to consider the bargain and then nods in agreement.

"Yes, sir."

Harry breaks away from their gaze, and begins talking to Dumbledore. Harry can feel the boys gaze on his back, soft and considering, but Harry is to afraid to mess up the almost-perfectly-normal father-son moment that had just occurred, so he lets Geoffrey and Devlin sort themselves out. Inside he's thinking of how he's going to tell Alexandra. He smiles, despite the serious conversation Dumbledore is telling him about.

"I missed you, Geoffrey," Devlin says, slinking next to the sitting man. When he's sitting, Devlin can pretend they stand eye-to-eye.

"I missed you too, Dubhán. How was your Moon-day?"

The full moon had been less then a week ago, and Geoffrey knows that means the wolf is especially strong in both of them. Still, not even his wolf predicted that Devlin would crawl up onto his lap and lay his head against his chest and sigh in that puppy-ish way.

"It's just me. All alone. It's cold. And I whine all night. Emma says so. _He_ won't put up a silencing charm, so I know _everyone_ hears me crying, like I'm a baby." There are tears forming at his eyes. Geoffrey looks at them in bewilderment. He's never seen Dubhán cry. Perhaps Devlin was not as lost as he had once thought. He lays a hand on the boy's head and brings it close to his mouth.

"But, Dubhán, you are just a pup. Why…why do you have to be alone?" It makes his heart break, thinking of the rambunctious pup all alone.

"Remus is the only werewolf I think they know. He's so _tame_ Geoffrey. I don't think he's ever met a werewolf in wolf form before!"

Geoffrey laughs so loudly that Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore look over at them. He doesn't try to hide his next words behind whispers.

"You think Remus Lupin is tame, Dubhán?" The boy nods against the man's chest. "I know you never told me, so I never told you, but I know how you were bitten. That _tame_ werewolf fought along side your father, in his house, with Wolfsbane in his blood. He grabbed_ you _right from under the nose of a killing curse. He killed three death eaters who tried to get near you as you transformed. The Death Eaters said they'd never seen a werewolf protect a human so fiercely. He wouldn't even let Potter near you!" Geoffrey leaves out that Harry, had shown him this memory after Geoffrey's outburst towards Lupin, just to show him it had been an accident.

Harry and Dumbledore have stopped talking. Harry is crying. Dumbledore is smiling.

"Really?" Geoffrey nods, and then words start to flow out of Potter's mouth.

"Remus wouldn't even let the Auror's near you. Or the Healer. You were so afraid. I only got to hold you after Remus had transformed and I put a sleeping spell on him."

"Then why can't he be with me?"

"He was afraid it was too soon for you. He thought you'd think he was trying to replace Geoffrey. We thought that was who you transformed with."

**I wanted to make sure the first chapter of the New Year was extra long! :) **

**I might come back and write a snippet about Devlin's transformation, but I couldn't make it happen this time and it wasn't necessary. Once more I'll add, in case you missed it, there is a one-shot side story of how Devlin got bitten – just go to my profile and you'll see it. The title is self-explanatory. **

**How did the Geoffrey-Devlin thing go? Did you like the more positive Harry/Devlin interactions? What about Sirius? Anyone looking forward to a dressed up Potter family at a Ministry Ball? Wonder **_**who else**_** could be at such an event? **

**Please review! No really – I like them. In all honesty, if no one reviewed I wouldn't publish the story. I'm content enough to simply write it down and keep it on my own computer, but I enjoy knowing that others like it too. So PLEASE REVIEW! :) That is all. See you soon!**


	22. Dressed Up

He tugs at his collar while the tailor takes measurements for his dress robes. Voldemort had always insisted he dress well, but he'd never worn the traditional black and white dress robes that one associates with special occasions. Nonetheless, it is more like what he used to wear then the 'play clothes' he so often wears now. He looks in the mirror and decides he looks very much like Dubhán.

"You look very handsome, sonny," The tailor says while Alex is off helping Emma.

"Thanks," he whispers, still looking in the mirror. His hair is parted and combed, but it isn't slicked back at all. There are more freckles on his cheeks, looking like dusted wings across his face. He plays outside a lot with Emma. His Mum is heading his way and pauses mid-step, having caught sight of him. She comes over, grinning.

"You look so grown-up! And look how handsome you are!" She runs her hand through his hair, parting a stray lock with her fingernail. His caught off guard and realizes how 'mothering' the motion really is. He looks up and smiles at her.

"Will there be dancing at this party?" She nods, still looking at him wistfully.

"I wonder if you have two left feet like your father," she laughs, still smiling.

"Two left feet…?"

"It means your father is a horrible dancer."

"I know how to dance," he says, not defensively, but also not modestly.

"Oh really?" There is a glint in her eyes. "Maybe you can teach Harry!" She ruffles his hair and when he looks in the mirror again he looks even more like Devlin. He smiles to himself.

.OoO

Once more, Devlin finds himself looking in the mirror at his well-dressed self. His Dad is behind him, helping him with his tie and combing back his hair. They were dressed in the same type of suit, except that his father's had a bit more detail around the collar and he had golden pins by his wrist, whereas Devlin merely had a button. Still, they looked much the same, in terms of clothing. Even there eyes looked more than a little alike – and if Devlin could just calm himself all the way, and rid his eyes of the amber flecks, they would look exactly the same.

"You're so lucky," his father said, laughing. Within moments his hair was perfectly parted and combed back. "I donno whose hair you got, but I'm just glad you didn't get mine!" He doesn't bother telling him he got Tom Riddle's perfect hair, just like he got the set of his eyes from his Grandfather. He doesn't know where the rest of it came from, but his father keeps saying he looks like his Grandmother Lily.

Harry tries running the comb through his own hair, but it doesn't do much.

"You're mother won't even know I tried. I swear – she'll send me to the bathroom to 'at least try'." He sighs openly and shrugs. "Oh well, Sirius likes to say it's a Potter 'signature'. I'm just glad you didn't get it and, honestly, more glad Emma didn't. Girls who have perfectly well-behaved hair already take too long with it – imagine the torment I would have been responsible for if Emma got my hair!" Devlin stands on his tiptoes so he can see a little more of himself.

"I feel funny," he finally says, looking up to see his father in the mirror. Harry stops trying to comb his hair and looks down.

"Why?"

"I feel…like Dubhán, I guess…" Harry just looks down for a long moment, uncertain how to respond. He knew that Devlin's experiences while he had been captured by Voldemort would never completely disappear and he also knows he couldn't let the child think he loved him less because of that fact.

"What's the difference?" He asks, hoping his voice is as calm and inviting as he is trying to make it be.

"It just feels different," the child says, shrugging softly and looking away from the mirror.

"Have you ever been to a big party?" He asks; trying to elicit exactly what is making he boy so nervous.

"Not like this…I've been to big gatherings, but not a _party_." He sends a fleeting glance towards the mirror again and for a split second their gazes lock on the reflecting surface. "I was never really _allowed_ at the parties Voldemort threw…" Harry frowns. It still confuses him that Voldemort would have shielded Devlin from any of that. If he had wanted to torture Harry in everyway possible, wouldn't he have tortured Devlin, made him watch other's tortured, made him celebrate Auror and Order Member's deaths? But he hadn't – Devlin expressed over and over again how he had been barred from such things.

"Why?" He asks, unable to stop himself.

Devlin's eyes come back to the mirror and even Harry thinks he looks more like Dubhán and less like Devlin.

"I think he meant to kill me," Devlin says softly, "and then I think his curiosity got the better of him." Harry wants to ask more. Wants to know what he means, but then Emma is running down the hall and both of them share one more look. The look clearly says – _not around her_ and Harry goes back to _at least_ trying with his hair and Devlin with smoothing out his perfectly-smooth pants.

Emma runs in. She is wearing a pale blue dress that highlights her brilliantly blue eyes. Around her neck is her favorite necklace and the upper part of her hair is pulled back, with the rest flowing free. She looks beautiful. So pretty in her blue dress.

Devlin almost runs away. He almost begs her to change the color of her dress. Almost steals his father's wand and does it himself. Then he clenches his fists and tells himself he's stronger than that.

"You look really pretty," he manages to say, sounding almost completely sincere. His father gives him one scrutinizing glance, but then must dismiss it as something unrelated. Devlin doesn't correct him.

Emma twirls and giggles and looks so _innocent_ that it's most enough to wipe away the memory of the other blue dress and brilliant blue eyes.

"Oh Harry, have you even _tried_ to comb your hair yet?" Devlin looks away from Emma and up at Alex, standing in the doorway. He almost laughs at Harry's exaggerated sigh and the 'told-you-so' look he directs at him.

"Yes I _have_," Harry says, almost appearing to pout. Devlin wonders what Grandfather would think if he knew Harry Potter _pouted_.

"Well let _me_ try. We've only got a couple more minutes left." She walks over, her deep blue gown flowing along with her, and grabs the comb out of her hand. "At least Devlin did a nice job with _his_ hair." Harry rolls his eyes.

"_I _did a nice job with Devlin's hair, Alex, because his hair isn't _horrible_ like mine!" Alex tsks and then gives him a quick kiss. Nonetheless, his hair looks marginally better when she's done with him.

"Now, lets _go_, or we'll be late." And so they all head downstairs to the floo. Devlin's eyes go more amber as his nervousness mounts, but his Mum's hands around him as they tumble through the floo steady his breathing.

**Hope you like the chapter. I have some choices to make about the next chapter that are kinda making me feel like a bout of writer's block is upon me. I want to start moving some thing along in this story, but at the same time I don't want it to go by so quickly it's not believable… **

**Oh well, I guess we'll see. Unless a bunch of motivation hits, it might be a week or two before the next chapter. Just fair warning. **

**Please review! I got 0 reviews for the last chapter! As always, I am ever thankful for my constant reviewer ****MissVenusVixen. **

**But come on guys? Is this story really not that good? Every other story I've read lately has **_**tons**_** of reviews (okay maybe not tons, but more than 1 per chapter). What am I doing wrong, eh? Is it difficult to get through the first bunch of chapters? I think I might need to go back and reformat them – I couldn't figure out how to do scene breaks back then. **

**PLEASE REVIEW! **


	23. Her

His mother had warned him they'd be flooing to Sirius's first. He waits for the tumble that he distinctly remembers floo travel being notorious for, but his Mum holds him tight against her and saves him from falling.

Sirius' is there, a silly smile plastered on his face, as always. "Don't you look handsome," he exclaims, grabbing him from his mother's arms and looking him up and down. His mother flicks her wand and the dust vanishes from both of their clothing. She steps to the side and a moment later Emma and Harry come through.

"How do we get to the Ministry from here?" Devlin asks softly. He's not sure why they hadn't left from the Potter residence itself, but Devlin rather thinks it has a _limited_ floo network connection and definitely has anti-apparition wards in place.

"The security is such that we'll be using apparation to get close by and then walking the rest of the way. We'll have to put concealment charms on our clothing to make it appear more Muggle-friendly." Devlin frowns at the last part. He knows Muggles aren't bad, but he can't help but feel a niggling sense of _unease_ whenever he must be around them, which was rarely. Grandfather had told him stories about Muggles…

.OoO

They apparated to a small alleyway, which looked curiously _clean_ today and quickly began walking. Devlin didn't miss that both Harry and Alex walked with their fingers ready to grab their wands from the holsters up their sleeves. Their eyes are scanning, roaming, and analyzing _everything_. Devlin is familiar with the process and immediately he finds himself doing the same, following the months and months of training protocol. _You have no excuse for losing focus,_ one of his trainers had once said. _If you forget, you will pay the price. If you don't notice – it will hurt_. Devlin wishes Dumbledore had returned his wand.

They walk along the Muggle street and Devlin finds himself grabbing hold of Emma's hand, pulling her next to him. She looks sideways at him, clearly not distressed in the least. He can't bring himself to tell her she should be. They come to phone booth…

.OoO

When they are transported into the Ministry, Devlin sees his mother and father at last relax. The Atrium has been transformed into a Ballroom and Devlin marvel's at its beauty. The ceiling stretches high above their heads, beautiful and awe-inspiring and Devlin simply gawks at it, before he remembers that he's at the Ministry in _public_ and quickly schools his features. His Grandfather would have been _so_ disappointed. _'I thought you better than that'_, he would have said.

Devlin looks straight ahead and when a man comes over to his father, he stands perfectly still at his father's side, a pleasant regard on his face. The man's son is with him as well, but his face is broken with a smile, a _childish_ smile. He wonders briefly if he was ever able to smile like that.

"'ello," the boy says, extending his hand towards him. He has dirty blonde hair and pale brown eyes and such a _boyish_ look about him that Devlin thinks he _must_ be Emma's age, except he's far larger than Emma. He takes the boys hand, lest he appear ill-mannered. "My Da says we'll be first-years together, at Hogwarts. My names Thomas, but you can call me Tom, everyone does."

"My name is, Devlin, _Thomas_." He doesn't think he can stand to call anyone Tom. The name as an etched meaning in his mind that will never leave and never be connectable with someone else. His mind whispers: _It will hurt if you say that name._ The boy frowns at his choice of name, but doesn't comment. He has an edgy look to his regard now, though. Devlin recognizes it: weariness. The boy is worried about him and that worry is tinted with the first hints of fear. He imagines he has one of those glowing signs, like the ones they passed outside, hanging above him: Devlin Potter, Harry Potter's son: spent four years with Voldemort. If only they knew, but his Grandfather had always made it clear that Alexandra Potter did not like to flaunt their relation.

"I've got an older sister, she's in Ravenclaw," the boy says, as his father continues to talk to Harry and Alex. They're discussing the security parameters. Even though Thomas's father is dressed in similar dress robes, he is still wearing the Auror pin, meaning he's on duty. "What house do you think you'll be in? I want to be in Gryffindor!"

Devlin looks back at the boy, who he'd only partly been listening to, and frowns. He's heard all about the houses, of course, but only from Death Eaters. Still, he is pretty sure what house he'll be sorted into and it hasn't got anything to do with is 'want'. Because he's not a Pureblood and by then, his Grandfather may very well hate him. "Slytherin." The boy visible recoiled.

"That's the house most of He-who-must-not-be named guys come from," the boy says slowly. By then they have their parent's attention and Devlin is quickly losing his bravery.

"I didn't say it was the house I'd pick. I don't ask for what I won't get. You don't get to pick," And he turns to his mother, away from the boy. "Where do we get to sit, mother?"

A bit awkwardly, Alex leads him and Emma to their seats, while Harry lags behind, finishing his discussion. Devlin watches him from their seats. There are five other chairs around the table, but they are still empty. When Harry is done talking he ruffles Thomas's hair and Devlin feels a surge of jealousy – Harry still dare not treat him with such ease. As Dubhán it would have been fine for him to want to lash out at the boy in his jealousy, for he was clearly not above him, but he knows as Harry Potter's son that would be far from encouraged, so he stops such thoughts into the ground of his mind.

"Who is sitting with us, Mummy?" Emma asks, unaware of Harry's approach because she hasn't been watching him like a hawk. The closer Harry gets, the more his frown increases. He pauses a yard or so away, looking at Devlin. He conceals his features before Harry can decipher the hurt expression he knows must be playing across his face.

"Well, Ron and Hermione will be here, and besides them? The little paper says that the Watson's will be here. You remember the Watson's right Emma? They have a little – well not so little anymore – girl." Emma is nodding and humming in a positive fashion and Devlin tears his eyes away from Harry and to the tabletop. As Harry seats himself next to him, so that he and Emma are between Alex and Harry, he doesn't breathe a word about Devlin watching him. Devlin allows himself to relax, just a bit.

_I feel like Dubhán._

More and more people arrive. They must have been early. He thinks his father must be on duty (perhaps he's never truly off duty) because people with badges keep coming over to him and asking him questions or reporting things to him. Once in a while he'll get up and walk off with them, and Devlin always watches him.

Ron and Hermione arrive at last and Ron is wearing a badge. He drops Hermione off at the table and goes off to talk to another man with his badge. Hermione and his Mum talk about things that don't interest Devlin at all. The kind of things that Emma likes to pretend she knows about it. The fact that all three of _them _are interested in it at the same time, should be enough to let Devlin know he shouldn't bother to listen.

"When do you think Daddy will be back? He _promised_ he'd take me dancing, Mum." Devlin let's Emma's petulant voice crawl into his brain. Alexandra laughs softly.

Then all at once her laughter stops and she is saying hello and Devlin whips his head around, hoping this signals a change in topic so he can stop blocking out talk about dresses and hair and necklaces and whether they could use a sticking charm on Harry's hair.

The Watson's must be coming. At least, Devlin figures it's the Watson's since there is a young man talking to his Mum and a young lady and a girl approaching behind him. Three people for three empty chairs. The man has a badge, which means he's likely to leave the table soon. Which means it will be more _girls_. He's starting to understand some of the Death Eater and the ways they talked about their wives.

The girl is following her mother, looking at her feet as she walks. Devlin frowns. Something about the top of her head seems so familiar. He feels his nerves ignite and shivers. It must just be that she has red hair… he forces his nerves to calm down and forgets the sense of familiarity until the food has been served and she finally stops fiddling with her food. By that time Ron, her father, and his father are back at the table. Both of them realize the horrible truth at the same time. She gives a little yelp and her blue eyes fly to the tabletop again.

Emma is begging Harry to take her dancing, but he's avidly avoiding the job. Devlin grabs her hand. "Come on, Emma. Let's dance," he says firmly and drags her off her chair and onto the dancing floor. He can feel Harry's eyes upon them. No doubt it made both his parent's nervous to have them out of reach.

He twirls Emma and slowly chants the steps 'one, two, one, two' with her over and over. She is giggling, grinning from ear to ear, but he has eyes only for the table. The girl is tugging at her Mum's dress. Devlin knows she must be telling them everything. He stays dancing with Emma as long as she will let him. "One more," he whispers and he tries to ignore the pleading in his voice.

"I'm _tired_," she says softly, pouting. So he sends her back to the table and dashes into the crowd. He knows if he goes back they'll know everything…

He races through the crowd, throwing his arms wide to cut through the many dancing couples, until he reaches a quieter place and cowers behind a statue. It is here that the voice finds him.

"Why hello, Dubhán," it says, and Devlin would know it anywhere. Afterall, it is the man who kidnapped him in the first place; the man who had failed his Master once, the night that Devlin had be bitten, and begged for a second opportunity to please his Master and succeeded. Draco Malfoy. "How are you doing, hmmm?"

Devlin feels his mind panicking and quickly reels it in. This man can perform Legilimenecy. He builds that comforting wall around his important thoughts, imagining the un-ending wind that will protect him.

He lets his eyes dart around, looking for his father or mother.

"Take me back?" He pleads, because he knows saying anything else would be deadly. He has to play this part. He already knows it's safe – the security tonight won't let Draco Portkey or Apparate him away and Draco would be stopped at the exit if he had him in tow.

"There are wards that would prevent that…" Says Draco, frowning at him and putting a hand on his shoulder. His other hand slips something in his pocket, but Devlin knows better than to draw attention to the act. "Having that bad of a time? Your Grandfather was starting to worry." He inches closer to Malfoy.

"Didn't he get my letter? I tried to get that boy to send his father a letter. Professor Snape brews my potions and I tried to tell Grandfather I'd be coming to Hogwarts again. I told the boy to write that!" He tries to forget the pain the boys father will probably be in tonight for his son's false failings.

"I'll pass that on," he says and glides away. Devlin looks after him and misses his father's approach, which Malfoy surely hadn't.

Devlin will tell his father they have to be more careful on their trips to Hogwarts, but he won't do that now. He's sure his father is going to be furious with him. Sure she's told them _everything_. Sure he's in so much trouble. Sure his father has seen how worthless he is and will _want_ him to be sent back._ But he promised he'd love you not matter what…_

"Devlin, what's wrong?" He asks when he's within in arm's length. He gathers him up, pulling him against him. His heart is beating quickly and his breath is quick. Devlin realizes he's been running. "You gave everyone quite the scare. Ron and David are still looking for you. You Mum is with Emma, probably pulling her hair out. Why would you run off like that?"

So the girl hadn't told them anything. Devlin feels a little of his self resolve crumble in his relief. All of a sudden his breath is hitching and he knows, if doesn't get himself under control, he'll start crying. In _public_. Where Malfoy might see him. It's bad enough he hasn't pushed Harry away – Malfoy will report that, he's sure.

"One of them…one of them is _here_," he says softly, entirely the truth, even if it wasn't what was fueling his fear. He can feel his father's body go rigid.

"They can't hurt you. We'll walk back to the table and your mother will take Emma and you home." He says firmly, grasping his hand in a death grip and dragging him along.

"Are…will..you be coming home too?" He stops for a moment and peers down.

"I have to work, Devlin. I _have_ to be here, but you don't. I don't want you here if any of them are here."

"But they can't hurt me, you said so," Devlin says, feeling a niggling of guilt at his half-lie. Now his father will think him weak and easily cowed. "I don't want to go home if you're staying here," in truth he'd like to leave and leave behind the girl and the possibility she will speak the truth, but he also knows this is _weak_ of him so very _weak_ and he doesn't want to be weak.

Harry bends down so they're at eye level.

"I want you to be safe, Devlin. That's the most important thing. I can take care of myself."

"So can _I_," he seethes, anger welling up from his belly. How can his father think he's incapable of taking care of himself? Harry shakes his head and begins dragging him again, until his mother is within eyesight and she comes rushing forward.

"He says one of them is here," Harry whispers furiously at her. "He wants to stay but…"

"If you stay, Devlin, it's at the table," his Mum says, turning towards him. Not acting like he's an incapable infant. He nods.

"I will, I promise." And he swallows away the acid rising in his throat as he sees the girl, her head still bent, at the table.

For the rest of the night he listens to talk about dresses and hair but now it sounds like a not quite good concealment for the uneasiness felt around the table. The girl and he look once or twice at each other, but never speak.

He thoughts never stop, however, and he closes his eyes frequently against the memory of brilliant blue eyes and innocent screams.

**I hope, as always, that you liked the chapter (and the story as a whole so far). I'm done asking for reviews in my long winded way - you will either review or you won't. I hope that you will, of course, but know I cannot make you. I will always update regardless of reviews, but reviews do motivate me and as this story gets longer and more complex, I'll need the motivation to keep posting. So – you decide. And don't think 'oh, the next person will review so I don't need to' because that's what the next person will think too. **

**In the very near future: more about the girl with brilliant blue eyes, maybe an appearance from Severus Snape, probably another, more detailed nightmare, etc. **


	24. Words I Wish I Trusted

There is concern in their eyes. Worry. Love. Kindness. A desire to be close to him. A need to know that he is okay. And he doesn't want to give it to him. If he gives into Devlin then he will spill _everything_ to him in between body-racking sobs.

He's not Devlin, he's _Dubhán_ and Grandfather would never let him cry like that. _Calming Potions, Sticking Charms, 'Scourgify', 'Tergeo', disappointment, and disgust – these are all things Grandfather would have done and shown. _He wraps them around him like a comforting blanket, staving off his emotions.

"Can you tell me which one?" Devlin hears his father ask, so softly, so kindly, so lovingly. Like he's a china doll and he'll break at the least little pressure. He looks up and glares at him.

"No!" He yells, feeling his blood burning hot under his skin. His father just looks. He doesn't draw away. He doesn't use a spell. He tries to gather him in his arms. He sends a look at Alex and he knows they're shooing Emma out of the room. It sends him into more of a rage, or maybe it _lets_ him be all the more enraged. "You're so _stupid_ if you don't know!" He yells, backing away from his father's approaching embrace. "He's right, there is no logical reason you're the one!"

Potter's eyes flash dangerously and Devlin can tell he's trying desperately to keep his cool.

"I wish I knew why you were acting like this Devlin. You were perfectly pleasant all the way through dinner."

He sees red.

"You don't love me," he screams, feeling the raw words tear into his throat and make it _hurt_ just as much as the words themselves hurt. They're so powerful that they even hurt his father, who crumbles to his knees in a moment of defeat.

"I do love you. Very much." His father says, looking at him with the green eyes they share.

"No you don't," he says, deadly calm.

"How can you say that, Devlin?" Harry asks, pleading.

"You know that boy, that Thomas boy, don't you?" His teeth are clenched.

"Yes, I do," Potter is frowning, clearly confused about the apparent change in topic.

"How long have you known him?"

"You and he are a month apart. You used to play together when you were babies. You used to be friends…"

"And you kept talking to him, even when I was gone! You kept looking at him and you never once thought of me!" There is a fizzing sound around the room and a decorative jar off to the side shatters. His father hardly even pays it mind. His magic is as unimpressive to his father as to his Grandfather. The thought makes him unhappy and that dejection makes him so much more _angry_.

"I always thought of you, Devlin," Harry whispers, tears in his eyes. He is dressed just as Head Auror should be, just as the savior of the Wizarding World should be, but neither of those people seem like they should cry so easily.

"But you never came to get me!" The simple words strike Harry hard, and his whole frame sinks closer to the ground. Alexandra is back from wherever she brought Emma and she crosses the room and grabs Harry and lifts him – settling him on the sofa. When she turns around, her face is as schooled as his was at the party.

"I know you're hurting," she says softly, kindly. "But you need to explain yourself better. What made you think this?" She sounds so similar to Geoffrey that for a moment he can pull the rage under control.

"No I don't!" He yells, finding his rage even to strong for him. He's not explaining anything to them. He's not telling them about her! He dashes from the room and climbs the stairs quickly and slams his door shut. Then he puts the most blatant locking charm he can think of, over every inch of the door.

_Breathe_.That's what Geoffrey would say. '_You have more control' _that's what Grandfather would say.

"Breathe, you have more control than this, Devlin." He paces. He imagines his bookshelf at home with his mahogany desk. Oh how he misses being able to lose himself in books. Then he remembers that Malfoy had put something in his pocket, and he turns out his pockets, searching for it.

It is a small, shrunk, book. Devlin curses that Dumbledore has his wand. He slips it into a desk drawer. He'll have to wait to know what it is about.

_There could be magic on it…you should tell your father_. He shoves the logical voice aside. He doesn't want to tell his father anything. Let the girl spill her guts – he's stronger.

He gets undressed and flops onto his bed and, because Zee is nowhere in sight, doesn't bother to transform. He closes his eyes…

But sleep won't take him. He tosses and turns and tries covering his eyes with his blanket.

_I wonder if she's telling her mum and dad right now… _

The thought, in some form or another, has kept him up for the last three hours. Taunting him with the improbability that she would do anything else. She'll tell them and then her father will tell his father and then they'll _know_. His heart beats quick and fierce against his chest. His mouth has gone dry, just imagining what his father will think. He doesn't even want to think about what his Grandfather's reaction would be. He had done something he wasn't supposed to do.

_But it had to be done…_

_She'll tell them anyways. Even after what I did, she'll tell them…_

…_are you so sure?... _

The previously unthought-of doubt startles him. Why shouldn't she tell them?

'_If you tell them anything about this camp or about me, they'll find you again and kill you.' _The words rise to his present thoughts, haunting him so clearly that they might have been spoken mere seconds before. His words. His voice. Her wide fearful eyes.

But that was foolish – surely she realized she was safe now and could say anything she well pleased…surely…

_You didn't._

His frown under his blankets deepens. He turns over again, trying not to think about it anymore. Eventually he even falls asleep.

When he wakes up his door is still locked. He stares at it for a long moment, debating. On the other side, he can hear Zee's heavy breathing. The smell of food wafts up under his door and makes the decision for him. Even though he knows his mother and father must be upset with him at his outburst, he knows they won't deny him food. He opens the door and walks downstairs.

The closer he gets to the kitchen, the more he frowns. He can hear Emma's voice, but the other one, while familiar, is unexpected.

"Sirius, can't you take the charm off _yet?_" Emma is saying, and he can picture her petulant pout.

"Your Mum said not to touch it," Sirius replies and he hears a pan being put down.

"But _why?_"

"Because, Emma," says a voice Devlin hadn't known was there: Remus. "He has as much right as anyone to be upset and when he's upset he has a right to some space." He can hear Emma's dramatic sigh.

Zee is standing beside him, looking at him. Then he starts to walk towards the kitchen, a sure way to give away Devlin's presence.

"Zee," Devlin breathes. The dog turns for a moment and then, as if he were intent not to listen, he walked into the kitchen anyways. But Devlin didn't want to see any of them, so he turned around and began to make his way up the stairs.

"Won't you come have lunch with us, Devlin?" Devlin rounds on Remus, baring his teeth.

"No." He turns fully around and crosses his arms.

"I'm sorry to hear that. You must be hungry."

"Where is my father?" He growls, looking down upon Remus from his higher vantage point.

"He had to leave," Remus says simply, watching him.

The words reach deep down inside of him and reawaken that rage from the night before. So he'd left. He hadn't even said goodbye or told Devlin when he'd be back, even though Devlin _needed_ him. Even though he's sworn he loved him just the night before. But he left. Grandfather _always_ told him when he was leaving and when he'd be back.

Harry Potter had left…

Left when all Devlin wanted was he, no matter what he said. Gone, just when Devlin needed to talk to him the most, struggle to hold it in as he may. He _wanted_ to tell him about the girl. But he wasn't there. Because he'd _left him_.

"There was a job he was needed for, Devlin…" Remus is saying, his eyes shadowing. "He said to tell you he wanted to say goodbye, but didn't want to go into your room when he'd promised not to. He'll be back later tonight."

"Where did he go?" Devlin asks, more softly than his last words. He can feel the rage and bravery and desire to keep going leaving him like a sinking tide.

"He had a job," Remus repeats.

"You mean my Grandfather did something…" Devlin says, his breath hitching. Remus pauses, but then inclines his head. Devlin grips at the banister. "What happened?"

"There was a small attack," Remus says.

"Where?"

"I don't know. Harry merely said it was an 'isolated incident, but unusual' and that everyone was alive, but someone was in critical condition." Devlin feels like his stomach is filled with ice while his thoughts are boiling.

He turns and runs up the stairs again, shutting his door and leaning against it. Slowly, he allows his body to slide down to the floor. He thinks he knows who was attacked… '_Didn't he get my letter? I tried to get that boy to send his father a letter. Professor Snape brews my potions and I tried to tell Grandfather I'd be coming to Hogwarts again. I told the boy to write that!'_

Except the boy had done exactly like Devlin had said. It was Devlin who had failed.

He feels his breath coming in heaves and tears running down his face. Zee is on the other side of the door, whining loudly. He stays here for a long time. Minutes become hours and hours pass before he hears the distinct sound of the floo flaring to life and his father's voice downstairs. He opens the door a crack, listening.

"He'll be okay. Dumbledore has the family under watch. The man wouldn't tell us why the Death Eaters attacked and wouldn't let us question his son – who used his wand to call the Ministry."

"Devlin came down around noon, then promptly ran back upstairs and we haven't seen him since."

"Shit, I thought for sure our row would have blown over by morning. I'll go talk to him." Devlin closes the door softly as he hears footsteps ascending the stairs. He can't bring his body to move, however. He just hasn't got it in him. _But you can't tell him! _

There is a knock. "Devlin?" He dare not answer. "Devlin?" He holds his breath. "Devlin, please talk to me." He buries his head in his knees. "I'm so sorry for anything I did to make you think I don't love you," he continues. Devlin chokes on a sob, but it hadn't been soon enough. Harry had heard him. He hears his father's body come to rest in the same spot as his, on the other side of the door. "Devlin, I wish you trusted me."

"I can't tell you," He finally whispers. "I just can't. I can't talk to you. I don't want you to hate me."

"I would never hate you Devlin," his father says. "But you don't have to tell me. Just come have dinner. Your mother will be home soon…it would be nice to sit together. Remus has been cooking – he's a good cook."

"You won't ask me questions?" Devlin asks, cautious.

"No, I won't." Devlin stretches his body and stands up, puts his hand on the doorknob, and opens it. His father, leaning against the door, falls backwards, but there is a smile on his face. "Nice to see you," he says.

"Nice of you to erm…fall in," Devlin jokes, and for a moment he can pretend he'd never seen those pretty blue eyes or told that boy to write the letter. He knows it can't last, but he wishes it could. Wishes his father would _never_ know.

_But she'll tell them…_

**EDITED TO ADD: I have chapter 25 finished. I'm reading over it now. 26 is a quarter of the way done. I figure this time maybe I'll let you guys tell me when you're ready for the next chapter. I'm not saying "review or I won't post' I'm merely saying 'review and I'll finish rereading it for mistakes NOW rather than later'. ;)  
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** Hope you like this chapter as much as me. I'm working on making the chapters a little longer. Please REVIEW! **

**In the near future: more about the girl with pretty blue eyes, more about the Bowman family (the ones who Devlin thinks have been attacked), more about Devlin's fears, Why Voldemort didn't just kill him, etc. **

**Pretty please with a cherry on top, review! **


	25. Savings People Thing

_But she doesn't. _

He wakes up each morning for the next three mornings expecting to arrive at breakfast and for his mother and father to _know_, but they don't. They smile at him just as before, except that his mother's smile is tinged with a little more concern each day. The need to tell them grows stronger, just as his certainty that she'll do it grows weaker. He lay in bed, another night, thinking about. Just like the night before. Just like he knows he will tomorrow night.

_Why hasn't she told them?_

'_If you tell them anything about this camp or about me, they'll find you again and kill you.'_

_Could she still believe that? Could she be sitting in her bed, desperate to tell her mother, or her father, but afraid they'll kill her if she breathes a word? _

"_If they catch you and you tell them anything about me, I'll let them kill you, because they'll already have killed me."_

_Could she be worried about _him?

He sits bolt upright in bed, his covers falling off his head and onto his thighs. He crawls out of bed. Zee's head lifts and he cocks his head at him, as if asking 'what are you doing?'

"I have to tell them, Zee," he breathes, feeling the air constrict in his chest. "I _have to_." Zee tips his head the other way, letting out a low whine at the distress in his voice. The wolf-dog looks him up and down and then, finding what he's looking for, puts his head down and Devlin knows he's saying 'do what you have to' and so Devlin does. He opens the door and tiptoes out of it and into the hallway just like he had heard Emma that one night.

He reaches their door. It is closed. He puts his hand on the knob, but his courage is dissipating. He turns around. Zee is in his doorway, sitting there, watching him. His head is tipped and his tail is wagging slowly but surely and Devlin knows, he can feel it in the dogs regard, that the dog _wants_ him to go into the room.

"It makes her all-better when she goes in here, doesn't it?" Devlin whispers to him, referring to Emma. The dog's eyebrows go up. Devlin opens the door and inches inside.

He's never been in the room before. It is larger than his room. An ajar door off to the right clearly shows a bathroom and there is enough room for two wardrobes, two chairs, and a large bed. In the bed, are his Mum and Dad. He tiptoes over to his father's side. It is Harry who _must_ know. Harry who he fears most will never forgive him. Telling his mother would only be like half-finishing a job.

"Dad?" The green eyes snap open, quick as lightning. Harry expects to see Emma standing there, sniffling softly and certain a monster is in her room, but instead it is Devlin, standing there shaking silently. He sits up and puts his glasses on. He pats Alex softly when she begins to stir and tells her to go back to sleep.

"Lets talk in the hallway," he whispers, ushering Devlin out the door. Devlin glances at his room, wondering if he could just slip inside and close the door and forget he woke his father up. Zee is still sitting there and his presence is enough to make Devlin stay. "What's up, Devlin?"

"I-" he looks at his feet, clearly embarrassed to have woken him up like that. Like a _child_. "I need to tell you something," he whispers. Harry nods in encouragement. Perhaps Devlin has changed his mind and will tell Harry _who_ had been at the Ministry ball – and Harry can tuck him into bed and then go strangle the person. But Devlin doesn't continue.

"Is something bothering you?" He encourages, careful to avoid the word 'scared'; Devlin does not like admitting he gets scared. He wonders if the child will tell him more than the simple name; if all of it will come to surface: all the abuse and torture he _must_ have withstood at Voldemort's hands. The Mind Healer Alex and he had consulted privately said it could take months or even years for him to be comfortable enough to discuss what had happened. He braces himself for the worst, especially after the row they'd had earlier that week.

"Remember at the Ministry Ball, when I ran away?" He says, talking slowly and hesitantly. Harry nods, too afraid words will startle the boy and he'll never get to hear the name. Oh how he _wants_ the name. "And you found me hiding?" Another nod. "And I told you one of _them_ had been there?" Nod. A long pause; Harry fights to keep himself quiet.

"One of them was, but I wasn't hiding from him…" Harry feels a frown creeping onto his face. "I was hiding from you and Mum." For a moment everything seems to stop and Harry is especially aware that it is 3am in the morning, that he body aches from work today, that Devlin is barefoot and must be cold, and that his child had run away and hid from _him_.

"Why?" He manages to say, even though his lungs are not cooperating with him.

"There was a little girl at our table…" Harry nods and tries to remember if he'd bestowed any affection onto Maria Watson and if this was going to be another discussion about how he didn't love Devlin because he'd patted Thomas on the head. He's not sure if he can stand the idea that every move he makes will be analyzed and used to judge his love. "I've met her before…"

It takes a minute for his words to penetrate Harry's thoughts. The way he lets his voice trail off disturbs Harry and makes a voice from the past float forward into his present mind: _"I've seen that boy before…"_

"Where did you meet her?" He asks, although he's more than certain he knows the answer. He hopes his voice sounds reasonably level. Devlin looks up at him and fidgets some more.

"She was kidnapped, like me." But of course, Harry already knew this about Maria Watson. Kidnapped just like Devlin, only to appear back in her mother and father's arms less than forty-eight hours later. He hadn't been able to look at David for months afterwards – why that girl and not his Devlin? But he'd known the answer: Maria Watson wasn't as important as Harry bloody Potter's son!

He had questioned the girl endlessly – trying to figure out how to she had escaped, dreaming there was a possibility Devlin was wandering around some Muggle town like this girl, adopted by some Muggle family or in some orphanage! He'd even checked – spent hours talking to Muggle authorities and searching their 'missing child reports' but nothing. And she had never spoken a word to him, or her mother, or her father.

"But…they just wanted to hurt her parents. She wasn't really that valuable, I don't think. Not like me." Harry fights the sickening feeling welling up in his stomach. He doesn't want his son to know the difference. It isn't right that an eight year old should know he's worth more tortured and abused than outright killed – or that another child will have her freedom whereas he will not, because of his _father_. No wonder Devlin didn't think he loved him.

"She was wearing a blue summer dress when they dragged her through the compound," Devlin says, whispering. Harry drags himself out of his thoughts, to listen. "They're not supposed to _apparate_ into the open like that, but they were new, at least that's what Geoffrey said. He told me they just held children until their parents did what Voldemort wanted – they weren't valuable enough to torture. I didn't believe him. Before they had brought me to Voldemort," he looks down the hallway, as if he's looking into the past. Harry wants to rip that past away from him, crumple it like a badly written letter, and throw it away. "The Death Eater's said things to me…about what they do to little boys and girls…especially cute ones. I didn't understand most of it, but I knew they were talking about things they shouldn't do – that would hurt." Harry closes his eyes and wills his stomach acid back down his throat.

"Daddy?" He opens his eyes and Devlin is standing there crying. "She was wearing a blue summer dress and her red hair was all around her and she had these brilliant blue eyes and I thought…I thought that was what Emma might look like when she grew up. She was so _pretty_. I knew what they'd do to her. I couldn't let them do those things to her. I lay in my bed and I couldn't stop imagining her screaming and crying and begging…" Harry has his arms around Devlin, drawing the boy's shaking frame close to him. "But I did something _wrong_." Devlin pushes away.

"You don't want to hug me, Dad. You won't want to after you _know_." Harry can't imagine anything that will make that true, but the boy is backing away from him, fear in his eyes.

It is always fear, cold, haunting, and crystal clear, which makes Harry realize how human others are. He hates it when Death Eaters show that kind of fear. Hates it because he knows he needs it; he has to remember that humans make mistakes. But Devlin doesn't need _any_ fear – Harry knows how human he is, and so the fear makes Harry _hurt_.

"I will never hate you, Devlin." He says. Devlin laughs, except it almost sounds like a sob.

"I used the Imperius Curse. I was seven and I used the Imperius Curse on _her_." Harry frowns and blinks and then repeats the motions, trying hard to understand what Devlin is so clearly saying.

"I still don't hate you," of course he didn't. How could Devlin think that Harry had ever once _thought_ that Voldemort hadn't _made_ him do things? Dreamed of the possibility he hadn't – certainly. But he had always known his dreams were only that. "But why?"

"She wouldn't _move_,"he says, as if this explains everything. Harry tips his head in a show of confusion. "I told her to move, but she _wouldn't_ and the guards were patrolling and I'd _timed_ everything and she was messing it all up. She was going to get us both killed!"

How could Maria Watson have gotten Devlin killed? If that had been a possibility, then that would mean they had _met_, not just Devlin had seen her, but that she had seen Devlin. He remembers sitting in front of her and the way she had _cried_ even when she'd looked at him. He remembers her only words to him "please don't make me, Mr. Potter, you don't _want_ to make me," and he hadn't known what to think then, but realization is dawning cold and hard in his mind.

'_She was going to get us both killed.'_ In her own childish way, Maria had refused to talk so that she could protect herself and Devlin. But why would she think she couldn't tell her father or Harry?

In front of him Devlin is shaking uncontrollably, breathes away from the seizure Harry never wants to witness again. Harry leads him to his bedroom and takes a potion off his shelf and watches as the boy swallows it. It doesn't calm him or stop his shaking, but they both know it will prevent the otherwise inevitable seizure.

After a couple minutes of sobbing and gulping air and finally simply fidgeting, Devlin opens his mouth again.

"I snuck into the tent where they hold all the prisoners…" he is saying. "I lay under her cot until the guard was down the hall and then I put my hand over her mouth and she woke up and I told her not to scream or I'd leave her there," he's still shaking. He's on the floor, on his knees. Harry wonders if he'd realized he needed the potion too late.

"She didn't scream. She snuck out with me. Then we had to cross an open part – we were behind the prisoner tent and we had to get to behind the barracks tent. A stretch that was larger," he looks up and around the room "larger than this room. It seemed impossible and I knew we had to cross separately. I had to go first to see if there was anyone in wolf form and she had to come exactly _when I said so_. I told her this before I went ahead," he says, as if he's defending himself. "But when I motioned for her from the barracks tent, she just stood there, frozen."

"And so you used the Imperius Curse," Harry murmurs.

"I didn't think it would work, honest! Grandfather had tried so many times to make me do it, but I was rotten at the spell. He'd told me 'you have to mean it' and guess he was right." Devlin is looking at his bare feet, shivering. Absent mindedly Harry spells his slippers onto his feet. Devlin looks up, and there is no fear in his eyes anymore, just hurt. The same look he'd had moments before Draco Malfoy had apparated away with him in his eyes – uncertain hurt. "I told her… I told her that if she told anyone, they'd find her and kill her. I was just trying to protect myself. I didn't think ahead – I didn't realize she really _wouldn't_ until I was here and _I_ didn't tell you anything, either. I didn't know what it meant to fear like that until Severus taught me Occlumency and I didn't _have_ to be afraid of what I said."

Harry is nodding, trying to find words to comfort Devlin.

"She must be so afraid," Devlin whispers, still shaking.

"Just like you were?" Harry asks. To his surprise, Devlin nods and that's all Harry needs to be kneeling on the ground too, gathering the boy in his arms and breathing in his scent, hearing his heart beating quick against his own.

"She has to know she's safe now," Devlin sobs. "It's horrible when you don't. I didn't mean to scare her so much. I was so scared they'd find her because she wouldn't run fast enough, or they'd sense the magic before _you_ and then I'd be in so much trouble. I knew Grandfather wouldn't kill me, but I didn't tell her, because it would be _worse_. I knew he'd use it again and I knew I'd scream."

"Shhh, it's okay now, Devlin." But those had been the wrong words to say.

"No it's not!" He yells suddenly. "Haven't you heard me? It's not okay. She's still scared!"

"It's three in the morning, Devlin. We can't do anything right now. I'll call David tomorrow and we'll tell him, okay?" The boy sinks back into his arms and nods against his chest. Although Devlin can't see it, he's smiling. It hadn't been because she wasn't a Potter that she'd survived; it had been because _of_ a Potter. His son had been the difference.

**Did you notice those little words Devlin said that Harry has yet to process? Well if you did you're probably thinking 'oooh, when will Harry realize it' and if you're not your probably scrolling up to find Devlin's slip-up. :) **

**How many of you saw the Imperius curse coming? I have had Devlin's rescue (from his POV) written for WEEKS and have been dying to reach this point. Not sure if he'll dream the full scene or I'll just release it as a snippet, we'll see. **

**How many of you would be interested in some more Voldemort/Devlin interaction (set in the present) or do you feel I should hold off on that? Not a full blown rekidnapping, of course (that is already planned for much later) just some…correspondence. **

**Hope you liked the chapter. I have the next 6 pages of chapter 26 already written, but there are two ways to go with it and I think a scene I've placed in the next chapter will have to wait a bit, so I need to do a little rewriting, else this chapter would have been a big old 11 pages long! It almost was ;) **

**PLEASE REVIEW! **


	26. Just a Dream Now

He falls asleep on the floor, in his father's arms and his dreams are punctuated by the sound of his father's heartbeat, calm and steady. Tonight, instead of his dreams seeming so _real_ they seem like dreams – he watches them through his own eyes, as he always dreams, and feels what he felt then, but he also knows, deep down, that he's safe now.

_He's slinking around the compound, on a mission. The ground is cold beneath his paws. He lifts them lightly, tensing his body as he crawls forward. His ears are turning this way and that way, listening for the slightest sound. He puts his body fully against the ground and then he has feet and hands with thumbs and a wand in his mouth that he grabs. He is mouthing the words to a complicated unwarding spell. The stick is pointing towards tent-fabric. A small hole is appearing. Now he has paws again bends his head down to pick the stick up with his sharp teeth. It is important not to bite down. _

_She smells like flowers that have been stomped into mud. She is alone. He resists sighing in relief. He hides under the slim, uncomfortable looking cot that she's sleeping on. Feet walk near then continue beyond and he sneaks out again. Now he has green eyes. He has arms and he slings one around her. He has hands, and one of them is covering her mouth. She wakes up. Her breath is hot and quick against his palm, but she doesn't try to scream. _

"_Don't scream or I'll leave you here." His eyes are narrowed. He is glaring at her. The footsteps have just made the slight shifting sound that means someone has turned on their heels. "Get up." His words are so soft that he might have imagined he's said them, except that she's following his directions. His finger points to the hole in the tent. He sticks his body through it and waits for her on the other side. He closes it up. _

"_If you want to live, you'll do what I say." She nods, quaking. "If they catch you and you tell them anything about me, I'll let them kill you, because they'll already have killed me." She is nodding again. _

"_I'm going to transform. You'll follow me only when I scratch the ground." Her eyes are full of amazement when he transforms. He looks across the gap he must cross. His tail slips between his legs, a sign of fear that he wishes he could control, and he scurries across, low to the ground. Now he turns towards her and scratches with his paw, but she just stares at him, her eyes glassy with fear and exhaustion. He eyes her from across the camp nervously. He feels his four legs quaking in worry – she'll get them both caught! _

_Once more he finds himself with hands and feet and magic. He lifts the wand in his hand. It is shaking and he tries hard to make it still. _

'_Imperio', he breathes, a bare whisper. Perhaps it had just been the wind. And her eyes are calm now. And her face is free of that tight frown. And her hands fall lankly at her sides. And all Devlin can think is that it's true _'you have to want it,_' because he's failed so many time to perform this spell upon his Grandfather's request. _

_And he thinks of how he wants her to cross the clearing and she does. She follows him like a gosling follows its mother. He leads them into the woods by the camp. They are thick with fallen leaves and suddenly the air fizzs with magic. He stops and she stops behind him, still under his control. _

_He leads them into the woods. He stops. There are wards here. He transforms and performs the same spell again. He creates a tiny hole in Voldemort's wards. He calls it his numbing spell, because it seems to 'numb' the wards around it so that they don't notice the tiny hole has been created. _

_His control over her is slipping and slowly her lips turn down and her eyes stop looking so happy. She has no idea what has happened._

"_There is a town about a mile away. Keep walking towards the moon." He shoves a slender wand into her hand, not his own, of course, but it had done for the mission. "Try to make it light up once you're in town. It will alert the Ministry. If you tell them anything about this camp or about me, they'll find you again and kill you. They'd kill me if they knew…" _

"_Well, _run_." And she does. _

'Goodnight, Devlin," his father is saying and he realizes as his eyes flutter open for the barest of moment's that he's in his bed, the covers draped gently over his body. Zee's head is next to his, the dog's eyes moving back and forth between adult and child. His father leans over and kisses him and a sleepy smile creeps onto his face, quickly vanishing as he falls asleep again.

OooOooOooOooO

Harry Potter turns the knob to his bedroom, the light from the hallway falling upon Alex's face. For a moment happiness washes over him and he feels at peace. But then she moves, just the tiniest bit, and the ever-fragile peace is disrupted. He closes the door silently behind him, but doesn't climb into bed. He knows the instant his body tucks itself under the cover's she will _know_; her eyes will flutter open, her arms will reach out to touch him tenderly, and she'll ask '_is he okay?'_ and Harry won't know what to say. So, he wanders over to one of the armchairs instead.

His thoughts swarm like a nest of bee's newly disturbed. Devlin had defied Voldemort. The boy who had come to him swearing he wouldn't betray Voldemort actually already _had_. The fact that Devlin had used the Imperius Curse was of little importance to Harry. He didn't even think David would much care – it had saved his daughter and the intention behind it had been _good_.

_And he'd managed it,_ and there it was, the true thought behind all this buzzing swarming mess. Devlin had a great deal of control over his magic. More than Harry had ever had as a child. Even as a youngster, Harry had known Devlin had been more in control than Harry himself had been, but he and Alex and simply dismissed it as a child raised in a magical environment, something neither of them had truly experienced as young children.

Alexandra's mother, of course, had been a Pureblood, but she had run away from the magical world and Tom Riddle while still with child, and had raised Alex as a Muggle, even going so far as to act shocked and bewildered at her invitation to a magical school. She hadn't told Alex the truth for many years. Harry's life – well Harry didn't need to think about that.

It is plain to Harry, however, that Devlin's control is more than simply the product of a child raised around magic; it is innate. It courses through his veins and surfaces easily at his slightest whim.

He has the control of his Grandfather; Harry does not even bother to lie to himself. He carries himself like young Riddle, from Dumbledore's memories. He speaks like him, calm and collected and sharply intelligent. But he hadn't grown up unloved and left in an orphanage.

The things Devlin claimed to have experienced at Voldemort's hands were horrible, not the most sadistic or abusive – Harry could name quite a few Death Eater children, or simply Pureblooded children, who were taught equal Dark Arts as Devlin claims. He was beaten, clearly, but not frequently. Something had stopped Voldemort from being truly cruel after that first incident of Crucio.

He looks over at Alexandra and thinks of how Emma looks so much like her mother, with Harry's spirit, whereas Devlin looks so much like Harry's family (and a bit of Tom Riddle) with a personality so perfectly split between his parents that it is scary.

Alexandra is always calm under pressure, and the way Devlin had dutifully recited his plan had reminded him so very much of his mother. But he wonders if Alex could have ever ignored the _risk_ and took the leap for someone she didn't know. She has always said that is why she never became an Auror – 'I protect fiercely what I know, but can't find it in me to risk for what I don't', but that was okay, because Harry was the opposite and Alexandra often grounded his 'Saving People Thing' which Devlin seemed to have inherited…

Devlin had planned it all.

He must have snuck around the compound (how he hadn't been noticed, Harry wasn't sure), reached the 'prisoner tent' as he'd called it and found someway inside without disturbing guard or ward, and then been able to lay, unseen, under Maria's cot-

He stops his train of thought, frowning. How had he done that? He had explained it, hadn't he? He tries to think of the child's exact words.

'I had to go first … see if there was anyone in wolf form …. she had to come _when I said so_."Harry sits upright in his chair, eyes flashing. _Wolf?_ Had he said _wolf form? _

**So, who got the slip up right? BTW, it was Maria who called Harry 'Mr. Potter' just in case that wasn't very clear – Harry was remembering what she had said to him. She, of course, thought if she told Harry, Devlin would **_**die**_** which is why she said he didn't **_**want**_** to make her tell him. And also why she broke into tears at the sight of him. **

**I know this is **_**really**_** short (okay compared to what I've been trying to put out there) but I **_**really really really **_**wanted to end it here. I added Devlin's full 'dream' as a bonus (this is the scene I've had for weeks and weeks waiting impatiently to share). I may come back and edit it, honestly. I usually keep these scenes to myself because they evolve in little ways to help the story. For instance, I **_**KNEW **_**Devlin had to have done something**_** wrong**_** but I didn't know what it was until the day I uploaded the last chapter and then it suddenly hit me – the Imperius Curse! . So, if anything should need adjusting and you're thinking 'but…it didn't say that' check back here, I might have changed it. [insert evil laugh]**

**In the future: Devlin meets Maria again, Devlin tells about the Bowman attack (the family he thinks was attacked), possible Snape action, oh yeah and does anyone remember – Draco Malfoy **_**handed**_** Devlin SOMETHING. **

**:) **


	27. False Courage

**A VOLDEMORT/DEVLIN SNIPPET FOR YOUR ENJOYMENT (MERELY A MIDNIGHT WRITING RAMBLE). **

_He is afraid. There is no one yelling. No scary spells flying through the air. No glares. No threats whispered in a hushed voice by his ear. No – there is _nothing_. No one is looking at him, and that's how he knows he's in such trouble. He wasn't meant to be in here, and he'd realized this far too late. No one speaks. No one lifts his or her regards. No seems to even be breathing. _

"_Geoffrey, get rid of the child," the man says, the scary man, the man who strokes his hair like his mother and makes him wither in pain. _

_A young man comes forward. He has wavy hair that falls charmingly to the side and bright blue brown eyes, tinted with amber. He _knows_ the man is a werewolf, although he isn't sure why. He doesn't look like Mooney and he doesn't smell like him – exactly. Yet there is a slight familiarity and although it is faint, it makes him certain. _

"_Where shall I bring the boy, My Lord?" He knows about Lords – mother brought him to a Church once and taught him about the Muggle's God and how she had, as a child, visited the building every Sunday. There was something special about Sunday's. _

_In the building there had been a great big statue of the man, hanging from some sort of wooden 'cross' and his mama had soothed his fears when he had pointed out there were _nails_ through his flesh. This man everyone keeps calling 'Lord' doesn't look like that man at all, and so he frowns again._

_He looks too charming, too nice, too handsome, too polite, too cunning, too –perfect- to be anyone that had felt something like nails in his flesh or hung from a wooden cross. When he'd first met the man, he'd looked even less like 'God' and more like the 'Devil' the old man had spoken about while he had been told to sit quietly. _

_Yet this man had let him live – had lifted that curse – and didn't that, in it's own right, make him some kind of God? God was supposed to forgive people, after all… _

"_Bring him to his room, of course," The man says and the werewolf nods and bows and whispers 'Yes, My Lord'. Except there is fear in his eyes, fear unlike he had seen in that building on that Sunday. There had been no fear in those Muggle's eyes. No, this man was not God, but perhaps these people, being Wizard's, had never been brought to Church by their mama's and taught about the Muggle God. Maybe they didn't know. But he did. Of course he did, because his mama was a good mama and had taught him about Merlin and God. So that he'd know. _

**NOW THE REAL CHAPTER: **

Devlin treads lightly down the stairs. His father had seemed anything but upset last night, but perhaps he hadn't fully processed the fact that Devlin had used an Unforgivable Curse on a child.

Emma is eating eggs and Harry is reading the newspaper, and his mother is over by the stove. Devlin realizes it must be Saturday. His father looks up when he hears Devlin take a seat and smiles softly, almost secretly. He wonders if this is the smile he exchanges with Emma the mornings after her nightmares.

"Hello," he says, trying to gauge everyone's mood. His mother turns around and smiles and says brightly 'Good Morning, sweetheart' Emma's eyes alight and she bounces a bit in her chair (he thinks mother was right when she'd said Emma didn't quite "think of you as 'mundane' yet, like her father and I"). His eyes seek out his father again, who is sipping coffee (a taste Sirius likes to joke he got from being raised by Muggles) and looking at him over the cup's rim. Devlin swallows, preparing himself for the worst. For the subtle hint of disapproval. For the unspoken, but not unknown, threats. For him to flaunt that he has something _against_ him now.

"Your Mum is taking breakfast orders," he says, smiling "better get them in while she's still in the spirit to cook Muggle-style. She's much better with her hands than her wand around food," he gives him a secret smile again. Behind him his wife is mumbling something that Harry's all-human ears can't hear, but Devlin's can.

'I'll show you good Wandmanship around food' and Devlin keeps his best straight face as the sugar rises into the air, unscrews it's own top, and pours itself over Harry's head. Harry looks up into the stream of white tumbling off his hair and sticks his tongue out.

"Yum!" he says brightly, grinning. Behind him Alex mumbles 'I'll get you, Harry Potter, just you wait' but there doesn't seem to be any true threat behind the words.

"What kind of eggs would you like, Devlin?"

"I don't really like eggs…" he says softly. His mother turns around.

"You've eaten them every weekend with Emma," she says, confused, but not judgmental.

"I know. But I don't really like them. I just didn't want to say so. I didn't know we were allowed to pick…" He looks at his father's half-eaten French Toast. His mother follows his gaze and smiles knowingly.

"Ooooh! If you let me use magic, I can make them look like snitches. I made Molly teach me when you were little." He doesn't know who Molly is, but he smiles despite the childishness that it indicates.

"I'd like that." He says, and sits down at the table.

His father leans close to him. A bit more sugar shakes free from his hair.

"I called David," he says softly, looking at him kindly "I couldn't very well explain at this hour or over the floo, but I asked to see him and Maria. We'll go after you've had breakfast." Devlin nods. He feels himself go a bit numb and suddenly the snitch shaped French Toast don't seem as amazing as they once had, but he smiles for his mother, who is practically grinning over their 'perfectness'.

0oO0oO0oO0oO

He's never seen his father's study – he doesn't think his father spends that much time in it. _Maybe not since you've gotten here, maybe you changed everything._ There is a little guilt in that thought, but not much, so he pushes it aside. It is a nice study, with a desk visible right from the door and bookcases and comfy chairs, but it is not as nice as his Grandfather's. He refrains from mentioning as much.

His father sits down for a moment and Devlin almost thinks he'll say 'I wanted to talk to you' but the words seem to die in his throat, and he gets up.

"I haven't told David _why _we're visiting, Devlin."

"Didn't he want to know?"

"The case isn't 'closed' as some would say, and this isn't the first time I've questioned Maria. Undoubtedly he's curious – I have you back now, I've little reason to want information from her about her escape, but still, he saved his questions. Perhaps Maria was around."

"But why – why would you want to question her?"

"She was a child, not much older than _you_ and she had _escaped_ Voldemort. She had no control over her own magic, but you did. She is a bright little girl, but not cunning or as sharp as you were. If she could escape – why couldn't you? You can ask your mother – I spent weeks and months looking over Muggle reports of missing and found children. I thought maybe you'd escaped but, without a wand, been unable to find help."

He looks down at his shoes. His father is still staring at him, his arms half-way crossed in front of him in a protective sort of way.

"By the time I knew how to escape, Grandfather knew me too well and I knew him too well and because it was all I could remember, it was all I let myself want."

"I know Devlin, it's okay. I'm not saying you _should_ have escaped." He looks up into his father's bright green eyes and worried brow and nods slowly, knowing the words are genuine.

"When we get there, David will probably want to know why you're there." He nods again, feeling more and more numb.

0oO0oO0oO0oO **From Maria **0oO0oO0oO0oO

She runs into the woods, his words spurring her forward despite the unfamiliar surroundings. Her dress keeps catching on things and she turns around to rip it off. She's petrified it will be like that Muggle book her mother had read to her about the children and the breadcrumbs and so she turns around each time and plucks the fabric off the bramble or thorn or stick or log until her fists are full of the pieces.

Her legs hurt and her lungs ache and her heart has never felt more alive, but she keeps running, pushing everything in her to keep going.

'Well_ run_' the strange boys words haunt her. Every time she slows down, she'll see his face and hear his words and it will _make_ her run again.

She imagines he is making her keep running just like he'd made her cross the terrifying empty stretch between tents, except she knows it isn't true because everything is harsh and frightening and when he'd _made_ her, everything had been light and beautiful and _good_. Still, she tries to imagine she _has_ to keep going because he's making her.

She'd known he wasn't going to hurt her, because she'd _known_ him. How couldn't she? She spent weekends at his house with her mother. They'd teased little Emma with things just out of her reach before she'd begun crawling. He'd made that dog of his do the strangest things, by _talking_ with it. He was Devlin Potter and she would have known him anywhere.

But she dare not say it to him. Perhaps _they_ didn't know. Perhaps that was why he was still alive. She'd heard whispers about how the Death Eaters would surely have killed him, even before the body was sent back, because he was a Potter. So maybe they didn't know. Maybe he'd fooled them into thinking another little boy was Devlin Potter and he was just a useless boy who they didn't need to bother to kill.

Her feet stumble out of the forest and unto a paved road. A Muggle road. She races across it, her pretty shoes slapping against the hard ground. She can see the lights of a town. She dare not use the wand until she's reached the town. He's said to reach the town.

She passes by the first building and thrusts the wand into the air.

"Light!" she screams, but her throat is raw and abused and it only comes out as a whisper. The wand is dead beneath her fingers. "Light!" She staggers through the streets until she finds a park and sits on a swing and cries. It won't light up. They'll find her again.

_She's crying. Her Daddy is bouncing her gently in his arms. 'Oh Maria, here, look at Daddy's wand. Daddy is going to make a pretty light for you. Ready? Lumos'. _ The memory comes to her quite suddenly and quite sharply and she falls forward onto the ground. The wand flies out of her hands and she shuffles for it in the darkness.

It seems like hours before she has it firmly in her hands again. The pieces of her dress lay scattered around her, felt but unseen.

"Lumos," she whispers, remembering the light that had sprung from her father's wand when she was only a toddler.

It lights up. It is spectacular at the same time it is nothing special. Her Daddy doesn't spring from the bushes to rescue her. The park is silent. She almost begins crying again, but then an owl swoops down from the air and lands in front of her.

There is a tiny scrap of a note clutched in it's talon. She takes it from the bird and smoothes it out.

"This is a Ministry Bird, keep it with you. We're tracking it."

The owl clicks it's beak and looks ready to fly off, but she grabs it around it's center and holds tight, crying into it's soft, feathery, back. The owl, quite perplexed, freezes under her.

_POP_

There are a dozen men surrounding her, their wands drawn, ready for a fight. Maria lets go of the bird in a rush and begins screaming and it is only when one of the men steps forward and she see's his face that she stops.

"Maria, it's okay," says the man she knows. Her Daddy. Her tired legs and her aching lungs and her heart that has never felt more alive come to life once more and she sprints to him, burying her face in his Auror robes.

"Scout the area," orders another voice and she knows this one too and it brings to life her cries once more. She doesn't want to look at Harry Potter. But she can hear his footsteps coming towards them as everyone else's move away, into the darkness.

"Maria, do you remember which way you ran from?" He asks softly – so kindly. She thinks of telling them she accidently _apparated_, but Devlin hadn't asked her to _lie_ he'd just said not to tell about it, so she shakes her head. "Did you see the moon in front of you? Or maybe it was behind you? I know you're upset, but we remember these things best in the moment."

She shakes her head, willing her mouth to stay firmly shut. He has Devlin's eyes, except Devlin's eyes hadn't looked like they had when she'd known him; because he had to pretend not to be Devlin.

"Can you tell us anything, honey?" Her Daddy is asking and she looks up at him, keeping her body against his.

"I just ran, Daddy." She says softly. "I don't know anything."

"Perhaps it was just sheer luck. They did seem like rookies when they attacked, Harry." But Harry has a look in his eyes that Maria knows, because Devlin used to get it when he wasn't about to let something simply _be_. She swallows hard.

"Do you remember how you escaped?" He asks, and he isn't just asking, he's begging her. Begging her for a glimmer of hope. If she gives that hope to him, Devlin will die – he'd said so himself. She begins to cry. "Please Maria, no one will be mad, just tell us how you got out."

She cries and cries until her Daddy tells Harry that maybe she'll remember later.

0oO0oO0oO0oO

His father is knocking on the door and Devlin, beside him, is nervously making sure that his hair is combed perfectly back and that apparating hadn't put any wrinkles into his robes (the best he owns). He wants to look presentable, after all.

Finally, the man who had been at the table answers – Harry had called him David.

"Hello Harry," David says and there is an edge of weariness to his voice, like the tiniest bit of him isn't happy to see them. He turns his eyes to Devlin and visible frowns. "You didn't tell me you were bringing Devlin. I would have told Maria."

"I know, David." His father says, resting a hand on Devlin's shoulder, who feels like he _must_ be having a seizure, with how much he's shaking inside. But he knows he's not. There is no fire. David frowns again.

"If you bring us to your study, I'll explain a bit more," Harry continues and David opens the door wider. He leads them down a hallway. On either side, staggered slightly, are open archways. The first one they pass is an empty kitchen and the second one they pass is a living area, where Maria is at a sofa, looking stricken with her mother beside her. For one second their eyes lock and Maria starts crying. David seems to flinch, but continues leading them forward.

"It still makes her cry," he says softly, certainly not to Devlin, but Devlin feels his blood go cold nevertheless. What he'd done to her still makes her cry.

"I suspected nothing less," Harry says and he glances behind him for a moment and Devlin knows he's remembering the night before and Devlin's own tears. David nods, as he'd half-way understood Harry's glance.

"Here we go," he says and opens his study door. There are three comfy chairs and Devlin takes the one furthest away from David but closest to his father. His father might not have minded, but surely the girls own father will be furious. "So what did you want to explain Harry?"

"I'm not really here about the case, officially," he begins and then he frowns. "I'm here parent-to-parent, David." Now David is frowning.

"You have Devlin, Harry. What more can you want from Maria?" There is pain in his voice. Devlin wonders how many times his father had actually interviewed the girl, and how desperately.

"We don't want anything from Maria, David. I'm here for Devlin. Parent-to-parent. It's about the case, but it's not about asking Maria to talk." David's eyebrows are furrowed and his head tips the tiniest bit to one side.

"So what, exactly, are you here for?" He shrugs as he says the words.

For a moment Harry's confidence falters and Devlin, feeling quite useless, seeks to make himself otherwise. This is _his_ fault, shouldn't he fess up?

He almost says: 'I put your daughter under the Imperius Curse' but then thinks better of his own skin and seeks a meeker approach.

"I gave her the wand," he whispers, but he makes sure his eyes are lifted away from his clenched hands and he isn't showing fear. _You are never to show fear. Fear is for lesser beings._ He has to be strong for her.

"What?" David isn't looking at him; he's looking at his father. For a moment Devlin feels the tiniest bit of anger bloom inside of his chest: is he that unimportant that even a reaction to a confession cannot be directed where it belongs?

"I gave her that wand," he says more firmly, standing. The anger is spreading and it is creating a false courage. David's eyes turn to him again, and then flicker back to his father. "I stole it, and used it, and gave it to her! I broke through the ward's and told her to run!"

His fists are clenched at his sides. David's face is a myriad of emotions, each fighting for proper space.

"But how?"

He finds himself faltering under David's regard. There is confusion and sadness and gratitude (oh the gratitude!) and so much more. But it is the gratitude that makes him falter, because he doesn't deserve that gratitude. His face goes blank, like it used to before he was old enough to _pretend_ to feel something else. His voice is calm and level and _empty_ and it hurts him just hearing it, because it reminds him of his own interrogations as a child, by his Grandfather.

"I put her under the Imperius Curse so she would do what I told her to do, when I told her."

**Do you like the kinda sorta cliffhanger? :)**

**I had a tooth emergency and ended up on some BIG painkillers between appointments – like three different narcotics. I didn't know I was allergic to like **_**every **_**narcotic and semi-allergic to a non-narcotic painkiller. Let's just say I didn't manage to eat or drink for three days, at least not in any lasting way. My dentist nicely pointed out that at least I knew I'd never be an addict of pain meds. It was HORRIBLE! **

**That is my excuse for not updating… I think it is a good one. **

**I'm pretty happy with this chapter, but might come back to polish it up a bit. I wish Maria's POV part was more descriptive like Devlin's POV, but I just don't know her as well. I'll try coming back to it later.  
><strong>


	28. A Little Treat

David's eyes cloud over and he stands up abruptly.

"He did what?" He shouts, pointing a finger and accusatory glare at Harry. Once more, Devlin feels anger surge forth at being ignored.

"Ask him what he told her to do, David," Harry responds coolly, barely reacting to the man at all. David falters and slumps into his chair.

"Tell me," he says and what he wants to know is obvious.

"I had managed to sneak her out of the tent where they hold prisoners," he begins. "Everything was going perfectly. I'd timed it _all_ and I had gotten it _right_. She hadn't screamed and she'd _followed_ me. Then, she had to cross an open space between two tents and when I told her too, she just _froze_. _Everything_ was timed. In bare minutes there was to be a patrol and we had to be out of the entire camp before it happened. I cast the Imperius Curse on her so that she would cross the threshold. I released it after I'd led her into the woods and broken through the wards. I shoved a wand into her hands, told her to run towards the moon until she reached the Muggle village, and then I told her to try and make her wand light up. I knew the Ministry would sense the underage magic." David's gaze is on him, stale and dumbfounded and entirely uncomfortable. Devlin wishes it would leave him, but he won't be weak – he won't be the first to look away.

"You used it because she was afraid to move," he whispers, as if informing himself.

"Yes," he said, simply and coldly. "And I knew it would be one more mark against me if they ever found out, so I told her that if she said anything, they'd know and be able to find her and they'd kill her…and me."

David looks up and his gaze swerves to Harry.

"That's why she would never tell us!" He says. "Why she would never even _talk_ to you." Harry nods.

"Devlin wants to tell her it's okay to speak to you and Holly about it now," his father says, his voice kind and gentle and filled with sorrow.

David just nods silently. He stands up and motions them out of the study. Down the hall and into the living room. He goes in first. His voice carries easily through the open archway.

"You remember Devlin, Harry Potter's son, don't you?" David asks quietly.

"No, I don't," she says, trying to sound strong, but then she looks up and _sees_ him standing at the edge of the archway and it's too much: she freezes again. She's wearing a pretty purple dress with her hair neatly braided and her brilliant blue eyes are looking at him, beginning to collect tears.

"Hello," he says, stepping into the room - trying to be brave. He has to make this right. He has to be the strong one, just like before.

She backs away from him, her face full of fear and Devlin knows it not all for herself, some of it is for _him._

"I don't remember you," she lies loudly, shaking her head. "I don't at all." She's a bad liar. She is quaking and crying and her eyes are darting between all of them.

"It's okay," he says softly, trying to calm her. "We're both safe now," he tries again. She's still shaking. "They can't hurt me if you tell." Her eyes go wide.

"They could get you again!" She says, as if he might have been foolish enough to forget.

"I know how to protect my thoughts now," he says, taking another step towards her. She doesn't move away. "He'll never know."

"They'll hurt you anyways," she says, voicing her own fears.

"I know." It is the truth and it lies between them, half maliciously and half comfortingly. It is this truth that the adults in the room try to shush from their thoughts, but which they always know remains.

"They could even kill you," she continues.

"I know, but it won't be because you said something." The girl nods uncertainly. The adults are looking stricken.

"Are you sure?" She asks. She's stopped shaking. He nods.

"I already told your father," he says, comfortingly. "You can tell them about the Death Eaters, about me, about running to the village, about the wand – about everything."

"But I can't tell them _why,_" she whispers, her eyes focused intently on him.

"Why what?" He asks, confusion clear on his face and in his voice.

"I can tell them _how_ but I can't tell them _why_," she says again, frowning now. "Why you saved me. I never knew why you saved me."

He swallows. To admit to Harry that he did not agree with Voldemort's tactics was one thing – to admit it in front of an unfamiliar Auror, his wife, and his child, was quite another. It was a true test of his trust in Occlumency. Could he say the words? Did he dare? Could he hide them later?

He opens his mouth, knowing he has to make this right – has to be strong for her.

"They weren't supposed to bring you into the open like that," he says softly. "It was a rule – prisoners were to be brought directly to the cells. If they'd followed protocol I never would have seen you." There are tears in her eyes, but they haven't fallen. Beside her, her mother is sobbing.

"You were crying," he states, as if this makes up a large part of his decision. "You were screaming and they were dragging you and your hair, your red hair, was coming out of it's braid and sweeping into your face and I could see your eyes – such a brilliant blue. You looked like Emma. And they were calling you 'sweetheart' and I _knew_. I lay in bed and I couldn't sleep. I kept imagining what they would do to you. So I saved you."

oOoOo

Devlin walks away from the Watson's house with his hair out of place and his clothes wrinkled and wet in places. He hadn't been able to pry himself away from Maria's mother's arms for at least fifteen minutes as she'd whispered her thanks into his hair, calling him names he knew he would never be: angel, hero, good boy. No, Devlin was none of those.

He looks around the small neighborhood, less nervous on his way out than on his way in and therefore in more of an observant mood. He's not sure why they're walking – certainly they've gone far enough to be beyond any wards. Then his father opens his mouth and Devlin instantly knows the reason for walking.

"You know, you didn't tell them _everything_," Devlin frowns up at his father, trying to remember if he'd forgotten anything, but he was certain he hadn't.

"Yes I did. I told them everything I had told you."

"No, you definitely left out a particular detail. You know, about _how_ you got into the tent and hid under her bed," Harry has his hands in his pockets, the picture of relaxation. Devlin falters in his steps, going pale. Did he know what Devlin thought he knew?

"The fact that I snuck behind and disengaged the wards is unimportant to the girl or her father," he says stiffly.

"True, but that wasn't the detail I was talking about." Devlin rushes to catch up with Harry's footing.

"What then?" He says cautiously, although he's afraid of the answer.

"The part about you being an Animagus," he says calmly, continuing to walk along the sidewalk.

"I – I'm not," Devlin stammers, uncertain and afraid. What would his father do?

"You're not?" Harry turns around for a moment, throwing a grin over his shoulder. Devlin swallows and nods, trying to look calm and collected without looking like Dubhán, because then his father would _know_ he was lying. He finds it difficult.

"No, I'm not. Why would you say I am? That is difficult magic, you know. I'm only eight." Harry frowns for a moment, but it doesn't look like doubt flickering across his face. The pause lets Devlin catch up properly and once more they're walking side by side.

"I hadn't expected you to try _that_ excuse. By that measure, you shouldn't have been able to survive Voldemort, or Crucio, or broken through his wards, or preformed the Imperius Curse, or perhaps most impressive, mastered Occlumency as you have in only a month."

Had it been that little? Devlin is caught of guard with the idea that he's only been away from his Grandfather for a month. Sometimes he still yearns for his other home and it's owner.

"It's punishable by the Ministry, sir," he says softly, looking at his feet as they walk along the Muggle sidewalk. He's never been in a Muggle neighborhood before. He looks ahead of him and notices a small village. He wonders if there is a bakery there…

"I wouldn't tell them, Devlin. I am your father first, then an Auror. I don't tell them about Uncle Sirius, either."

He sighs heavily.

"Do you think there is a bakery down there?" Harry looks over at the change of topic.

"Yes, there is," he says softly. Maybe Devlin remembered coming here as a boy with his mother?

"If you buy me one of those cheese filled things, I'll tell you." He looks over at his father from the corner of his eyes and for a moment Harry doesn't know what to say – there is such a childish expression upon his face. He looks, once more, like the little boy who had been taken from him all those years ago.

"Deal!"

The bakery is near empty around this time of day, but a middle-aged woman comes forward to greet them cheerfully.

"Oh, Mr. Potter!" She says, grinning. "I haven't seen you in a month! Where is that little girl of yours?" Devlin wonders just how close they live to Maria's house – they'd apparated from Sirius's house but Devlin wonders if that had merely been to disorient him. Sometimes he still thinks Harry is intent to leave him blind about his surroundings – maybe he thinks he would run away.

"She's at home with her mother. Devlin and I are spending some time together, today." The woman looks at him and Devlin realizes he has subconsciously moved himself behind Harry.

"Oh my…but I…I haven't seen him in years Harry…" she looks to be in shock. She comes out from behind the counter and crouches down to his level, looking at him intently. Like she's seen a ghost.

"Yes, well the Police found him," And Devlin is surprised at how easily the Muggle word leaves his mouth and for a moment their gazes connect and Harry is surprised that Devlin knows the word. The word seems to shake him and he flickers his gaze towards the door, as if he expects someone to come through. Someone he's afraid of.

"Bless my heart." She whispers. "Well, I'm sending you home with a free bag of cookies, to celebrate!"

She begins filling a box with cookies, her hands trembling and tears slipping from her eyes. Devlin is thrown aback – why would this lady care for him? When she's done and handed the box to his father, she races over to the window and removes a picture – it is faded from being in the sun, and hands it to Harry, mumbling something about 'it not being necessary anymore'. Devlin manages to glance at it and sees it is a picture of him, before he was captured. A Muggle picture, from inside this bakery. They must have come by here frequently.

"Dad?" He looks hesitantly at him. He feels guilty, looking at the box of cookies and still wanting that pastry, but he hasn't had one in three years and he still remembers the way it had tasted.

"Oh right. Amy, can we have a cheese pastry too? I promised this one."

She lets him come behind the counter and pick out the one he wants and then refuses to let his father pay, so his father sneaks the money into a jar labeled 'tips' instead and leaves grinning and waving at the woman. Devlin looks down at the pastry in his hands, then up at the world around him.

"Are those your favorite or something?" his father asked, probably referring to the reverent look Devlin was giving the treat, as if it were too good to eat.

"I…I think so. I've only ever had one." Harry frowns, but doesn't push the boy. The treat had been part of a deal for one bit of information, not two. Perhaps he'd ask Geoffrey – he didn't think Voldemort had brought Devlin to a Muggle bakery, after all.

"So, now it's your turn." There is a glimmer of humor in his father's eyes and Devlin tries to hang onto the reassurance it gives him.

"I can turn into a wolf," he says simply. "Just a normal wolf. I'm little though. Geoffrey used to tease me about how I really _was_ a pup."

"Now I've got to introduce you to Padfoot," Harry said, laughing at something he must be imagining.

"But I already know Uncle Sirius," he says softly, biting into the pastry. He stands still, savoring the taste.

"Padfoot is Sirius'…nickname." He gives him a meaningful look and Devlin nods at once – he means it is his Animagus' nickname.

"Okay," the pastry is too good to be in an arguing mood and it almost makes Devlin want to start humming. Harry decides he has to start keeping some of those things at home, so that he can get that childish look on Devlin's face more often. _You'll turn him into Dudley_.

He also knew he wanted, more than ever, to know where Devlin had eaten his first cheese pastry. It must have been a happy memory.

**In the future: What Draco Malfoy gave Devlin, Severus Snape, Padfoot action, and why Devlin likes cheese pastries (yes, there is a story behind it, stop laughing!) **

**In other, but related news, I have about three more Voldemort/Devlin scenes in progress. I donno if you guys actually are interested in them, but I did get one review hoping to see more interactions; so I posted one last chapter. **

**Hope you like it! Please review! **


	29. The Foolish Pup

They walk all the way home and just as their front steps are within sight, Devlin reaches over and pulls on his shirt sleeve. He stops and turns to the boy, who is worrying his bottom lip. Harry knows he's about to hear something he'd rather not.

"Was that little boy who called the Ministry…was his last name Bowman?" Harry feels his feet go numb, then the tips of his fingers, then his brain. He stares at the boy, half afraid and half confused. Of course, he'd known Devlin probably knew many things about Voldemort, but he hadn't expected Devlin to know the people Voldemort planned to attack. He nods before he can stop himself.

"It was my fault," his son whispers - his green eyes turning upwards and looking into his heart with such sorrow and fear and guilt that Harry almost chokes on the air. "The first time we went to Hogwart's, I ran into the boy. He was waiting to see Dumbledore. I made him send his father a letter. Then, when Malfoy saw me at the dance, I…I lied and said I'd told the boy to include some information I hadn't actually. I thought it would be so trivial that Grandfather wouldn't care. Honest I did!"

"Why didn't you tell me?" He can't keep the edge of disappointment from his voice and the child before him reacts instantly. Now, instead of the fear, sorrow, and guilt there is only uncertainty and doubt and hardness.

"I made a mistake," he says, his voice soft and cool and so…empty. He's made a mistake? Harry isn't sure what that means. Had he meant to tell him but forgotten, or had he been too afraid to tell him, or was it only in hindsight that he realizes he _should_ have told him? The boy had saved Maria, he _knows_ Voldemort hadn't been able to turn him into an empty unfeeling shell, but had he come closer than Harry had thought?

"We'll talk about it later," he says, tugging his arm away from the child, fear rooting deeper and deeper into his chest until it is stabbing his heart painfully. "And when we talk about it, you'll be sure to tell me about anything else you think I ought to know." He tries to shake the disappointment from his voice, but he keeps seeing the little boy, his body battered, clutching at his wand and screaming for them.

"Of course," Devlin whispers, and Harry tries to see past the emptiness to the fear that it must be meant to cover. _'…and I knew. I lay in bed and I couldn't sleep. I kept imagining what they would do to you. So I saved you._'He tries to remember Devlin's expression, so pleading, when he'd spoken to Maria. He had wanted to make it _right_. He was trying to make this right too, he realized.

'_I made a mistake'_

What would Voldemort have done to him if he'd made a mistake? Harry had a horrible feeling that right at that moment, Devlin was trying to decide if his father would be the same as _him_. The thought makes Harry sick to his stomach.

The wards fizzle as they absorb the two residents and Harry relaxes a bit, as he always does once his children are behind his and Alex's wards.

OoOoOoO

Over dinner, Devlin starts to get the sense that his father hadn't actually told his mother where they had gone and his intuition is confirmed when he wakes up the next morning to find Emma eating breakfast in the living room, feeding pieces of cereal to Zee, who looks like he's just figured out how to make a new squeaky toy work.

"Why are you in here?" Devlin asks cautiously.

"Mommy and Daddy are talking about a letter Mrs. Watson sent to you," Emma says, "and they asked me to leave so that they could use grown up words – well they didn't say that, but I think that's what they meant." Emma shrugs in a disinterested way, throwing Zee another piece of cereal and giggling when he catches it midair.

Devlin feels the blood in his veins going cold while his skin is burning up. He races from the room and barges into the kitchen. Both eyes turn to him immediately. His father's face is flushed and his mother's is stained with tears.

"Devlin, your mother and I are talking buddy – can you give us a moment?"

"No. You're going to tell her, even though I didn't say you could!" There is pain in both of their eyes, pain for him and pain for themselves. And fear. Such fear. He turns away from it; they shouldn't show him their fears; they shouldn't show anyone their fears. '_Fear is for weaker beings than I', _that's what grandfather would say. That's what Devlin has been trying desperately to remember this past month.

"He _hasn't_ told me, Devlin, but I wish you would. I wish you would trust me," Devlin can't hear the last part, the part she withholds from him, but Harry can 'I wish you would trust me like you trust Harry'. He's been trying to convince her that Devlin opening up to him doesn't mean that, but the way the boy backs up and shakes his head makes all of Harry's certainty, in Alex's eyes, wrong.

"I can't tell you," he says and he looks away from her gaze.

"Why?" She whispers and even though it is one word, Devlin can hear the thousand that it stands for.

"I don't want you to hate me," he whispers, his eyes closed, "No matter what he says, it was _wrong_ and I know you would hate me. You would hate me for the other things too. Even _he_'smad at me for them! And you don't even yet know what's in my desk upstairs!" The last part falls from his mouth without him meaning to and his eyes go wide and he breathes in deeply, waiting for something. Something should happen. Something painful. Something sharp. Even a threat! But nothing does. Both his parent's are quiet.

"Devlin, I said we'd talk about the Bowman attack at a different time and yeah, I am disappointed in you, but I'm not mad."

"Disappointment is far worse," Devlin says, "it means I've lost value. You can become mad or even enraged with something that is valuable, but disappointment implies the thing has lost value." He turns on his heel and races from the room, up the stairs, down the hallway, and into his room. He grabs the book in his desk and stuffs it into his pocket. He's already disappointed his mom and dad, why risk disappointing Voldemort? What good could come of being more disappointing?

_You're fear is…disappointing. You're inability to grasp this spell, is far from ideal. You do not wish to disappoint me, do you?_

His mother is at the door a second later. He can hear Harry downstairs shouting "Grimmauld Place" into the floo. They must be sending Emma away. If Emma wasn't there, maybe they'd stop pretending. Maybe they don't love him.

_If your father truly loved you, Devlin, don't you think he would have killed my Death Eater that was holding you? If he truly loved you, don't you think he would have saved you? It isn't that hard; his mother did it for him. _

He swallows, raising his eyes to regard his mothers, trying to not feel the fear. Trying to be something _valuable_. 'I am not weak.'

"I've used the Imperius Curse on a child. I've fed Voldemort false information to get another Death Eater in trouble. I let a Death Eater give me something at the Ball and I didn't tell either of you about it!" He clicks his jaw shut and waits for her reaction.

"I don't care," she says finally, with a firm edge. "I don't care what you did Devlin."

"You don't understand!" He says loudly, just as Harry is coming up the stairs.

"No, you don't. We're your parents, you'll _always_ be valuable to us, no matter what you do or don't do." There is such sincerity and _love_ in her eyes; Devlin's stomach twists into a knot. He doesn't know what to do with love. One time maybe he did, but not anymore. Does love equal value? Does love equal power, or does it disrupt it, distract from it, and make it null?

"What if I don't want you to be my parents?"

'_I don't want to be like him, Grandfather.' 'I don't want to be a Potter.' 'I don't want to make you mad like Harry Potter does.' _

She closes her eyes for the briefest moment and a single tears falls from each of her eyes. Devlin knows he has hurt her deeply and for a moment he feels that surge of _something –_ perhaps power. It feels good, but then she opens her eyes and ruins the feeling – he's done that to her. He's hurt her.

"You wouldn't be the first child do say that to their mother, Devlin. And I am not the first mother to not care what you say – I won't stop being your mother and feeling everything that comes along with that. I love you, even if you don't love me."

But how was it possible to love something that didn't love you? Wasn't it like putting your trust in something disloyal?

"I don't know how to love," he says softly, the anger falling away from him, but stubbornness still clinging desperate to him. "I don't understand what I see in your eyes…"

His father is at the door and Devlin glances at him and sees the fear in his eyes.

"Devlin," his eyes swerve back to his mother. "Love isn't something you understand. It is something you feel."

"But how do you know that you feel it?"

"Would you want someone to hurt Zee? Would you want what happened to you to happen to Emma?"

The question makes him angry.

"What happened to me _wouldn't _happen to Emma," he says, growling.

"You don't think Voldemort would kidnap Emma? You think he _chose_ to kidnap you and spare her?"

"No, he didn't choose to kidnap him. I was kidnapped because they failed to kidnap _him,_" he points to Harry, "but what happened to me, wouldn't have happened to Emma. She would have screamed and he would have killed her. She isn't like me. He wouldn't be _interested_ in her." His father's eyes are looking away from him but his mother is looking directly at him, making sure he _has_ to see that love. It almost hurts him.

"Would you stand there and let her be killed?" It is his father. The words enrage him.

"Of course not!" He says, baring his teeth.

"That's because you love her," his mother whispers, taking a step towards him. "You love Emma."

He stands stock still, trying to decide if she's right.

"I know I _care_ about people, mother, but that's not the same as love. It isn't the same as the look Emma gives you each morning. It just isn't." And there is fear again in his father's eyes and sadness in his mothers.

"Er, Harry?" The voice travels down the hallway. Devlin knows the voice must be at the top of the stairs; Harry has to glance through his door to know as much. It is Remus Lupin. "I brought the person you asked me too…" His voice is uncertain. Who would he have brought? Devlin feels his mind preparing to go numb – maybe they _were_ tired of him. Maybe he really _had_ disappointed them too much.

"We're in here, Remus," his father calls and Devlin hears two sets of footsteps, each like a drumbeat counting down to some inevitable doom.

"Hello, Dubhán," His head whips upwards at the name and he finds himself staring into Geoffrey's amber eyes.

"What are you doing here?" He asks, uncertain. Was Geoffrey going to take him away?

"Your father called and said you weren't having a great day," he says gently, walking forward. "You look sad," he says and his voice is still soft and comforting.

"I did something wrong, Geoffrey. I did something that he would be so _mad_ about…and I never told him." He feels like a pup standing in front of Geoffrey. He breathes in and the scent of Geoffrey mixes with the scent of Remus and heightens the feeling. He knows his eyes are going amber – he can feel his wolf stretching and awakening, curious.

Geoffrey comes close to him and wraps his arms around him, drawing him close. His lips are buried in his hair and Devlin stands still, knowing that this isn't just a hug; it is a way for Geoffrey to assure his wolf that he is okay.

"It wouldn't be about that little girl, would it?" He asks softly, drawing away to look him in the eye. Devlin feels his knees go weak and he whimpers, so softly that Harry and Alex barely catch it, but to the side of Geoffrey Remus is holding himself back and Geoffrey is drawing him close again. "It wouldn't be a good idea to tell the Dark Lord about that, Devlin."

"You knew?"

"Did I know you would be that foolish as to risk your safety for her? No, I didn't. I thought you were safe and sound in bed, but the next morning you _smelled_ like her, and I knew." There is no anger, no disappointment, no sadness, just facts and the soft eyes of the wolf, ready to keep him safe. He understands those eyes.

"I _had_ to Geoffrey…" he whines, feeling his throat close around his words. "They were going to _hurt_ her."

"I know, and you weren't supposed to know," he says, whispering the words into his hair. "I didn't want you to know. I had hoped you'd believe my lies, or at least allow them to pacify you falsely."

"She looked like Emma!" He cries and he can hear his mother's gasp as realization comes fast and cold.

"Like who?" Geoffrey asks and Devlin looks up, startled.

"Like Emma," he repeats, incase Geoffrey hadn't heard him.

"Who is Emma?" He asks with all sincerity.

"My sister," he says softly.

"Oh, I didn't know you had one."

"I do…" and he turns around and grabs the picture on his bedside and hands it over. He realizes suddenly how much of his life Geoffrey is unaware of and with that realization comes another: how much of his life he had lost when he had been kidnapped. Geoffrey hands the picture back to him.

"Is that what is upsetting you so much?" He asks, his amber eyes coming back to him. It is the wolf's eyes and the pup in Devlin can't lie to the older wolf.

"Not really…" he says quietly.

"Then what?"

"I don't understand things, Geoffrey. I don't understand what everyone else does. What _they_ want me to understand." He peeks around Geoffrey to glance at his parents and inadvertently connects with Remus' own regard. There is a shimmer of amber in them.

"You are an intelligent boy, what could you possibly not understand?"

"I don't understand _love_," he says. "I don't think I feel it like Emma does." There is no fear in Geoffrey's eyes. No sadness. No guilt. There is only bemusement.

"Well of course you don't!" He says, smiling and laughing into his hair. "You are not like them! You are a Werewolf and you were bitten as a _child_, it is all you know." He leans closer, so that Devlin knows his mom and dad can't hear what follows: "Are you afraid you are like your Grandfather?" It is the whisper they used to speak in, that they would know only each other could hear – low graveling voices that were more wolf than human. Devlin nods, stopping himself from burying his face into the man's stomach. "What a foolish little pup you are," he says and brushes Devlin's hair out of his eyes.

"Am not," he says instinctively to the friendly admonishment.

"Foolish or a pup?"

"Both!"

"Oh but you are both!" Geoffrey puts both his hands around his face and runs his thumbs over his face. "You are a pup and all pups are foolish!" Devlin looks expectantly at him, waiting for him to finish their comforting routine. He should lean forward and say: 'you are his Grandson, but you will always be my pup', but Geoffrey keeps his mouth closed. A wound opens in Devlin's heart that he hadn't realized had been there, half-healed, all this month. He misses Geoffrey and he isn't certain why Geoffrey has suddenly changed their relationship. The pup in him wants to whimper and tuck it's tail between it's legs and look up at Geoffrey with uncertain eyes and flat ears. He looks away.

"Everything is different, Geoffrey. Now even you are." The words leave his tongue slowly, each one stinging.

Geoffrey looks surprised and bends down so that they are eye-to-eye.

"You will always be my pup, as long as you want. I promise." And he pulls him into another hug and over his shoulder Devlin can see his mother with a little smile and his father frowning and Remus – Remus whose eyes are a bright clear amber, regarding him intently.

Just then Zee comes into the room. From the way he slinks in, Devlin suspects he's been listening from the hallway. He approaches Geoffrey's crouched figure in a stalking sort of way, his ears not flat, but sharply alert, and his tail up but unwagging.

"Geoffrey, you have to say hi to Zee," so Geoffrey turns around and freezes quite suddenly, coming eye-to-eye with the half-wolf.

"Oh my, aren't you a handsome thing," he says, staying as still as possible.

"He's not great with new people," his father says, finding his voice. "Let me come get him."

But it is clear Zee knows what "new people" and "come get" mean, because he moves quickly out of Harry's reach and comes to stand behind Devlin, with his nose in front of his boy, looking Geoffrey up and down. Devlin touches his fur and he looks momentarily at his boy, checking him over.

"It's okay, Zee," he says softly. "This is Geoffrey." He reaches out to Geoffrey and touches his shoulder. "He's my friend." The half-wolf doesn't seem certain.

"I guess you're his pup too, huh?"

Devlin looks at his father before replying.

"Yeah, really truly…"

His father chuckles and all the tension in the room seems to dissipate. Even Zee calms down a bit.

"Everyone here knows about Padfoot, Devlin," his father says. "Well, except Geoffrey, but I _know_ he can't report anyone, so…"

And even though a mere month ago Devlin had sworn to keep his secret, that is all the motivation he needs. He transforms and runs around Geoffrey's feet, nipping at his pants legs until the man picks him up and rubs behind his ears and kisses him atop his head. He puts him down and his little nose leads him to Remus, who he sits politely in front of until Geoffrey says kindly "he's begging to be picked up" and _his_ wolf picks him up, holding him awkwardly.

Everything is so much clearer in this mindset and he looks over at the man and women, his mother and father, and _knows_ he isn't his Grandfather. That he feels love, that he is capable of the emotion, but that the way he feels it will always be _different_ from Emma or his mother or father, or even Remus, who had had a few more years as a normal child before being bitten.

**Hope you enjoyed the new chapter. Life has gotten a bit busier, so I haven't been able to post as frequently. Also, I'm experiencing a bit of writer's block. More reviews would really help with that…**

**Hope the ending wasn't too cheesy for anyone. :)**

**In the near future: the 'talk' Harry promised, what Voldemort had Draco give Devlin, the card Mrs. Watson sent Devlin, and much more. **


	30. Cheese Pastries

_He's laughing_. Alex looks at the little boy who had moments ago been a little wolf and smiles at his cheer. He is nudging Geoffrey and climbing onto the sofa next to him. Even though she suspects his behavior is partly an attempt to keep Geoffrey's attention on him rather than on Remus and Harry, who he is speaking with, Alexandra smiles.

"Geoffrey…" He whines; something Alexandra has _never_ heard her son do since his return. It startles her to hear such a childish voice coming from him. Geoffrey ignores him, like Zee ignored Emma when she used to pull on his tail. "_Geoffrey!"_

Quite suddenly, the young man's eyes turn to her son and Alexandra is startled by the firmness in them. But Devlin seems not to be effected. She watches, hoping to see the 'magic way' Harry had said Geoffrey could deal with Devlin.

"There are words better suited than simply my name," he says with a hard edge to his voice.

Her boy shrinks back, but there is an odd expression his face, half a pout and half defiance.

"_Excuse me,"_ he whispers, his face instantly blank. Alexandra's heart aches at the loss of that childish exuberance.

"He's just excited, I'm sure," she says quietly, coming up behind Devlin and touching his hair. Geoffrey seems to frown, as if he hadn't considered her presence before that moment.

"I'm sure he is," and Devlin is looking up at her wide-eyed and awe-struck that Alexandra finds her own face frowning in confusion. What had she done? What was so startling?

"Did I say something?" She asks quietly, looking between her son and Geoffrey and over at Harry, who seems as confused as she. It is only in Remus' eyes that she sees any clue: they are full of amusement and understanding.

"You made Geoffrey _stop_," Devlin whispers, his voice full of reverence. As if he sees her in an entirely new light.

She looks over to Remus, her eyes begging him to let her in on the secret.

"I think what Devlin means, and correct me if I'm wrong Geoffrey," he bows his head at the other werewolf, "is that you took responsibility to Devlin's actions by offering a reason and Geoffrey took your reason and didn't argue – meaning he _accepted_ your claim of Devlin. Meaning Devlin is more yours than his." Devlin is frowning at Remus and actually gets up and walks closer to the man, peering intently at him.

"Devlin, your behavior is unsettling to humans," Geoffrey points out softly, glancing at Alexandra to make sure his reprimand is acceptable.

"It's just that…you actually understood," he tips his head and continues to regard Devlin. "I didn't think you understood werewolf stuff."

"I may not be as in touch with my wolf as you, Devlin, but he tends to make things clear to me when I am sitting in front of two werewolves, at least as best he can."

Devlin nods, but instead of going back to Geoffrey, he looks over his shoulder and when Geoffrey nods, he goes to sit next to Remus.

"Since your wolf understands," he whispers, and lays his head on Remus' shoulder. Harry frowns and Alex smiles and Geoffrey looks away for a moment, but below the temporary sadness at the loss of Devlin being only _his_ he is happy for the boy.

They talk for a couple more hours, until Sirius pokes his head through the fireplace and asks if it's an okay time for Emma and he to come through. When Harry gives him the okay, he comes through with a sleeping Emma and hands her over to Alex, who goes to tuck her in. He frowns at Geoffrey, sitting all alone, and grins when his eyes fall upon Devlin, curled up on the sofa with his head in Remus' lap, asleep.

"If you're ready, I'll take you back, Geoffrey," Sirius says softly and Harry rises up to help.

"I'll go with you, I have a question, anyways. Remus, will you be okay with Devlin?" Remus nods and Harry and Sirius leave with Geoffrey through the fireplace.

OoOoOoOo

They're walking down a warded off hallway of Hogwart's, toward Geoffrey's small quarters, when Harry finally voices his question.

"Why does Devlin like cheese pastries?" Sirius would have laughed, if Harry hadn't looked so intense and sober.

"Cheese pastries?" Geoffrey asks, as if he thinks Harry is joking.

"Yeah, he knew about them. He knew what 'Police' meant as well. He said he'd only ever had one before, and it had been a few years."

"I never took him around Muggles. We weren't allowed to bring him around Muggles. We weren't even allowed to speak to him about Muggle things."

"Then how did he know there was a Muggle village outside of the camp?" Geoffrey freezes and tenses up.

"He didn't tell you? I thought if he'd told you about the girl, he would have told you about that…I don't know very much about it, mind you."

"About _what_?" Harry asks, his voice tense and threatening.

"A couple months after he was kidnapped, he escaped into the Muggle village, in plain daylight. All I know is that Voldemort himself went to fetch the boy…."

ooOooOoo

Devlin is wide awake when they both return, sitting on his hands in an armchair, looking as if he's making himself stay awake.

Remus must have left. Alex is standing in the living room door, so Harry goes to her first. She's wearing one of those "we need to talk" expressions.

"He won't go to sleep," she whispers softly, even though they both know Devlin can hear any whisper.

"Why?"

"He's waiting for you. Why don't you ask him why?" She's got a look on his face that clearly says 'you've messed up'. He smiles sheepishly as a pre-apology for whatever he's done, and goes back to Devlin. The boy looks dead tired and isn't even looking at Sirius.

"Devlin, what are you doing up?"

"I'm in trouble. You said so. You said "we'll talk about that later" and I thought you meant tonight."

"I didn't. Why would you keep yourself awake?"

His green eyes lift to regard him intently, as if Harry is the one who is acting strange.

"I was waiting for you, sir."

"If I want you to wait for me, I'll tell you, but I'll never want you to keep yourself awake on my behalf, Devlin. We'll talk tomorrow, you're far too tired tonight." If anything that seems to agitate the child even more.

"I promise I can do it now," he says softly, desperately. "Please don't make me wait…"

"Devlin, all I want to do is _talk_ that's all, honest."

Devlin's eyes narrow a bit, as if he's trying to assess Harry's honesty.

"You won't talk to me tonight?" He asks softly.

"No, you're too tired and I'm too tired." He bends down and much to the boy's surprise picks him up. Surely his father wouldn't want to be touching him too much – he was angry with him. He should be dragging him, ordering him, or threatening him – not carrying him. He glances at his mother on the way out, quite uncertain this carrying this is going to lead to anything good.

He expects his father to put him down on the floor; that's what Voldemort would have done. But he puts him in his bed and gets a pair of pajama's out of his dresser and lays them next to him.

"Go on, get dressed. I'll be back in a couple minutes." He leaves with a smile on his face, but Devlin is shaking inside. It wouldn't have been unusual for Voldemort to leave him with a task, even as simple as getting dressed, while he went and dealt with something. He would always say: "I expect this to be done when I return". Harry's lack of threat is disconcerting. He's _mad_, Devlin had seen it in his eyes outside that day. He had pulled away from Devlin, disgusted. Everything is so confusing.

oOoOo

Harry is furious, but not at Devlin. He remembers the regard Devlin had given him from the sofa – the expectation that something bad was about to happen. That he was going to be _punished_. Harry knew that regard, even though he suspected Voldemort did much worse to Devlin than Uncle Vernon had ever done to Harry.

He stomps into his study, where Alex follows him and sits down at a chair.

"What are you doing Harry?" Her voice is soft and she's trying to be soothing, but Harry's anger is far to hot and alive within him to be cooled so easily.

"I'm writing a bloody letter!" He says through clenched teeth, pulling out a piece of parchment and a quill.

"To who?"

"To _him_."

"To Voldemort?" Now she's looking at him with clear concern, as if he's suddenly slipped off his rocker.

"Yeah, _him!_"

"Harry, what would you want to write to him?"

"I don't know yet!" He says, his magic flaring around him. Alexandra swallows hard.

"Okay…maybe a letter would be a good idea. Get the thoughts down on some paper and out of your head…" Harry nods sharply at her words, more than glad when she leaves him to his brewing.

"Dear Mr. Riddle,

I bet you find it amusing that you were able to take a perfectly healthy child and turn them into something that is afraid to love, fear, or show any emotion whatsoever.

But no matter what he's _mine_. He was never yours. He's always been mine."

He rolls the letter up and ties it to an owl, ignoring Hedwig's protests that it should be her.

"Get this to Tom Riddle, or Lord Voldemort." The owl looks at him with a this-doesn't-make-sense regard, but Harry doesn't care, and opens the window. He knows the letter will never reach its destination, but somehow it is satisfying just to think of it.

He turns on his heels, anger slightly more dispelled, and goes back upstairs. He'd told Devlin he'd be back.

The boy is sitting the edge of his bed, dressed for sleep, and looking at his hands. He doesn't look up when the door creaks open.

"Devlin?" Finally, those eyes rise up and look at him. They are empty.

"Yes, father?" And he winces, because it sounds like that phrase was meant to be 'yes, grandfather' and he hates the idea that he's doing anything similar.

"I just wanted to tuck you into bed," he whispers, feeling like a normal tone might make the boy hide from him. Devlin frowns and narrows his eyes in confusion.

"Aren't you mad with me?" He asks.

"No, I'm not. I was upset you didn't trust me enough to tell me about the Bowman attack, and I still want us to have that conversation," _because you have to know a talk with me isn't a terrifying thing, "_but no matter how upset I am with you, Devlin, I'll always love you."

"Oh." He doesn't understand, but how can Harry expect anything less? So he tucks the boy into bed and kisses his hair, and tells him 'love you, see you in the morning', and just when he's about to turn off the light and close the door, Devlin speaks again.

"Dad?"

Harry pauses for a moment, his breath caught in his chest.

"Yeah?"

"There's a book on my desk. Mr. Malfoy gave it to me at the Ministry Party. You should check it to make sure it's safe…" Harry goes over to the desk, Devlin's eyes watching his every movement, and levitates the little book (obviously under a shrinking charm) off of the desk.

"Thank you for telling me, Devlin," and at that moment, he isn't thinking too much of the book floating in front of him, but of the fact that now he has the name. _Malfoy_. He swears this time the man will pay. He turns off the lights and closes the door.

**OoOoO Devlin's Attempted Escape oOoOo**

He propels his body through the forest, ignoring the brush as it attempts to cling to his sides. He throws his fists in front of him, warding off the worst of the scratches to his face, and keeps running. He has to keep running.

His feet slap onto the hard black stone that Muggle's use to make roads, and he keeps running, the hard stone slapping against his shoes. They're far too dressy to be running in – mother would have scolded him – but he doesn't care.

_Freedom. _It feels almost as if it is a tangible thing.

It is a bright sunny day and the little village almost seems to sparkle. Devlin races down its streets, _free_. He's free. He's escaped. His father will find him soon. He just has to find someone and tell them: "I'm Harry Potter's son, please get my Daddy" because _everyone_ knows Harry Potter.

Then he glances beneath his feet and remembers who uses this black stone – Muggles. They don't know his father. They don't know his mother. He keeps running, because he's too desperate to give up this freedom. Maybe there was still a way. Maybe he could hide here. His father always said Wizard's were poor at getting around Muggle places.

He runs down the main road until he nearly bumps into something and a man calls out "hey, boy, slow down!". He ducks through an opening door, under the arm of a women opening it as she leaves, and look out the window fearfully. It takes a moment for the scents to reach his nose and be processed. It _smells_ good in here; like the bakery at home. He turns around and is unsurprised to find himself in just that: a bakery.

There is a bored looking girl behind the counter and another, older lady.

"Got yourself in some trouble?" The young girl asks, snidely. As if she's seen many a boy his age try and hide out in her bakery. He looks between the two people, eyes darting fearfully, until the older women frowns at his silence.

"Deary, are you alright? Where's your Mum or Dad?"

"I was looking for my Daddy," he says softly and he can feel the tears coming to his face. The older lady comes down and looks at him, soothing him. "But I can't find him!"

"Wendy, get him a cookie or something," she says, all the while rubbing his back. The girl comes back with a cheese pastry instead.

They speak softly to him and call the Police who come and talk to him, promising to find his father, but then Devlin's heart sinks. There with his hand on the door is his Grandfather, looking like Tom Riddle with dark forest eyes and charming features. He pushes it open easily and strides inside.

"Devlin!" he says, false concern drenching his voice. Or maybe part of it is real. "You shouldn't have wandered away like that," But Devlin is backing away, shaking his head.

"Don't let him take me, please, he's not my Daddy! Don't let him take me," The Police move in front of him, but Devlin knows it's useless. They're only Muggles. They can't do any magic.

"Don't make this difficult, Devlin," Voldemort whispers, and the fact that his voice is so soft is all the evidence Devlin needs of the trouble he's in. He withdraws his wand and sweeps it across the police men and two women. They're lips are all moving, but no sound is coming from them. Devlin swallows.

"Now come here," he says softly, but Devlin can't make himself. He looks on in frozen terror, feeling that tangible freedom slipping through his fingers like sand. "Very well. I said not to make it difficult: Imperio."

All at once Devlin feels light as a feather and free of all concerns. His heart calms down until it is beating gently inside his ribs. He feels_ happy_. He should walk towards his Grandfather. No sooner had the idea come to him, had he found his feet acting it out.

"Oblivate," Voldemort says firmly to the room, and tells them the boy is his Grandson and they've seen all the proof they need. They're on their way back, but there is no need to write this up. Even in the grasp of Imperius, Devlin feels his heart sink into his toes. He feels the charm shatter from around him, but he doesn't open his mouth, because it will just mean that the nice lady and the Police will be obliviated again and he will be in more trouble. He walks away from the village with his Grandfather.

"We've discussed this before, Devlin. You're father isn't looking for you. He gave up." And there is a hand on his shoulder and then they are apparating and he is thrown violently onto the ground of the camp. In the middle of the camp. He's on his knees, in front of all of the Death Eaters, vomiting. How humiliating. He knows his Grandfather meant it to be, or he would have absorbed some of the magical burden or apparated to a more secluded part of the camp. He looks up from his hands and knees and catches Geoffrey's eye, who is breathing rapidly.

"Every single Death Eater responsible for wards and patrolling is to meet me at Headquarters in half an hour. You have failed miserably! You have been outdone by a five year old child!"

There is a hand on his shirt and it pulls him to his feet and drags him away from the crowd of Death Eaters, into Voldemort's private tent – where he stays too. He is deposited onto the floor of his bedroom. Not onto his bed. Not onto a chair. No, Grandfather is touching him as little as possible. That is always a bad sign.

"Apparently you are not as intelligent as I first assumed. Therefore, I will clarify a few things for you. You are _mine_." He bends down and there is a shimmer of red mixing with his forest green eyes. "I can be kind to you, or I can be cruel. It is entirely your choice. Which will it be?" He raises his wand and Devlin finds himself staring once more at the blunted point of wood.

His mouth his dry. That tangible feeling of freedom is entirely gone. He almost can't remember what it felt like, but he can remember what Crucio feels like vividly. He doesn't think he could survive it again.

"I'll be good," he whispers, looking up from his knees. The last place he should be in front of the man. But as much as this man hates weakness, Devlin feels it would be _very very_ bad if he were to rise to his feet. "I'll stay here. I won't leave. I don't want to make you mad." He is crying and he swipes angrily at the tears in his eyes. It's no use.

"That's a good boy. I didn't think you were that unintelligent. Now go get cleaned up, I expect you sitting in that chair," he points to one of the armchairs "when I get back." Voldemort sweeps out of the room, leaving a frozen and terrified Devlin behind.

OoOoOoOo

**Hope you liked this chapter. I **_**think**_** I do. What do you think of Devlin's attempted escape? **

**Next chapter: the talk between Harry and Devlin, the book Voldemort gave him, and some other things. Plus, I'm working on a side scene about why Voldemort chose not to kill Devlin in the first place! It's been brewing for a while. :)  
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**PLEASE REVIEW! **

**As you might have noticed, I'm not putting out a new chapter until I get at least one review, but I'd really like it to be more. On that note, MissVenusVixen you rock! **

**For clarification: Voldemort chose to oblivate the Muggles because if he had killed them, Harry might have picked up on it and done some investigation and found numerous people witnessing an oddly dressed boy running down the street. **


	31. Professor for a Day

He levitates the book all the way down to the library. He can't sleep with something of Voldemort's in his house.

The lights flicker on with a wave of his hand and he lets the book land atop his desk. He unshrinks it, frowning as it expands. Now he can see it is forest green, not black. It has no title and no author on its spine. It looks like a journal. For a moment he is caught in the past and he wants nothing but the comforting weight of a basilisk's fang in his other hand.

He checks the book for Dark Magic but only finds the remnants of Dark Magic that must have surrounded the book. Auror's like to say that Dark Magic has a 'stink' to it and that things left in that stink 'absorb' the odor. There is no lock, no password, no security. He checks it for portkeys or other magical signatures, but each comes up negative. Finally, he reaches his hand towards the cover and flips it open.

What meets his eyes is the tight neat scrawl that he would recognize anywhere – he had seen it pinned his own 'son's' body.

"_To My Grandson – a journal to fill with your thoughts." _

His breath catches in his chest. He falls down onto his chair. A flick of his hand turns the page.

'I'm not very certain what to do with a journal, but Grandfather says writing in it will soon become second nature. I'm not so sure, but I didn't tell Grandfather that…'

"Harry?" He whips around, coming face to face with Alexandra. She's in her dressing gown, her forehead furrowed and her bottom lip stuck between her teeth. She's worried about him. "You're not still writing that letter, are you?"

He shakes his head, all that he can manage.

"Then what are you doing in here this late?" She comes closer and he makes no move to hide the journal. He knows the minute she's come close enough to read the page, even though he is looking at her feet and avoiding her eyes. She takes a breath in and it chokes there for several moments, until it comes sliding out in rickety sort of way.

"Is that Devlin's?" She whispers, her words strained.

"Yeah, it is."

oOoOoOo

_Grandfather says to perform the Imperius Curse I must _mean_ to control someone. That I must _want_ to control them. _

_But to want to control something, mustn't you know what it feels like to control anything? See, it's not my place to control anything, so how can I __**mean**__or _**want** _what I have never experienced?_

_I spoke to Grandfather about just this and he has promised to consider the notion. Nevertheless, my tutor is becoming increasingly annoyed and Grandfather is becoming more and more disappointed. I don't want to disappoint him. _

OoOoOoOo

"We're going to Hogwart's today." Devlin rubs at his eyes, looking for his mother or Emma, but it is only his father, sitting at the table. Dressed in his Auror uniform. Instinctively, Devlin shrinks back. It is still embedded in him that he's not supposed to be seen by Auror's.

"I thought we were going to have that talk this morning…" He'd been dreading it all the night before. He'd woken up several times during the night and tossed and turned until even Zee was whining. Finally he'd given in and transformed – it was easier to not think in Wolf form.

His father gives him a sheepish grin. "Yeah, I forgot I had an appointment at Hogwarts until Dumbledore sent me a reminder this morning. I promised to contribute to the fifth year's Defense Against the Dark Art's lecture. They're learning about the Unforgivable Curses."

"Why do they need you?"

"We're going to talk about breaking through the Imperius Curse – I'm, er, apparently very good at that, and since I'm Head Auror…well" he shrugged "it will be fun, I promise. We'll bring our brooms and I'll take you to the flying pitch afterwards, okay?"

"Will I stay with you there?"

"Well yeah…"

"You won't leave me with the Headmaster alone?" His tone of voice makes Harry frown.

"No, I wouldn't." And Harry's tone of voice and mannerism makes Devlin frown. Perhaps Harry wasn't Dumbledore's pawn like Grandfather says. "Dumbledore is a good man, Devlin, but he believes himself responsible for a great many lives, and sometimes…he considers us _too_ equally."

"You mean he see's my Grandfather in me." There is a long pause where his father just looks at him, then there is a nod, quick and short and not repeated, but done anyway.

"Yes, he does. I tell you this because I know what it's like to feel left in the dark – to have yourself be a 'discussion topic' but never in your presence. Dumbledore wishes I would ask you things, that I won't."

"I won't betray him, sir." He says and he means what he says. He isn't ready to toss his Grandfather aside as if he means nothing to him.

"I know, and I'm okay with that." He furrows his brow. "We'll talk more about this when we get home, otherwise we'll be late. Can you get dressed and we'll grab you some breakfast at Hogwarts?"

He nods.

oOoOoOoOo

_I preformed the Imperius Curse today – successfully. My tutor actually shouted out "yes!" and Grandfather's eyes lit up. Over dinner Grandfather asked me how I managed and I told him I wasn't very sure… I think I just finally got so frustrated that I got angry. Grandfather seemed pleased. _

_I also learned the 'point me' spell today – that was a bit tricky, but overall easy. I didn't expect much praise in mastering it. _

_OOOOOO_

Zee, Devlin learns, does not like being left alone. If he had arms he would have tried to hold onto Harry, as it is, his teeth on Harry's robe do a fair enough job.

"We'll be back really soon, Zee," Harry says, for the seventh time. "You make sure everything here is okay, yeah?" The dog lets a whine out, but doesn't release his robes. "Zee…"

"Zee, let go," The dogs eyes swerve to Devlin and suddenly his jaw unclenches. "You stay here. Lay down." The dog cocks it's head, but laid down.

"How did you do that?" His father asks, looking at him.

"I can make animals do what I want, without training them. They just listen to me." And Devlin isn't sure why that spark of fear alights in his father's eyes so suddenly.

"Let's go…good boy Zee. Hogwarts, Dumbledore's Office!"

_OOOOOO_

_Grandfather says my journal is the perfect place to put ideas that I want to ask him about, while he's away on trips. _

_Today in potions we were learning about the importance of a half-stir, versus a full-turn and I was wondering if there was another layer of that importance. When you finish a half-turn you're meant to twist your spoon just so towards the middle, and therefore the potion always seems to flow towards the center. Would this half-turn finish contribute at all?_

OoOoOoOo

The Headmaster is seated behind his deep oak desk. He looks up and smiles softly at Devlin as he tumbles forward. Seated in one of the chairs in front of the desk, Severus Snape looks over his shoulder towards him – he doesn't smile.

"How lovely of you to invite me to tea, Albus, when you knew Potter was about to visit."

The Headmaster smiles.

"It slipped my mind entirely, Severus." The Potion Master snorts and mumbles 'you unbearable old coot' under his breath, but of course Devlin hears him quite clearly.

Devlin rights himself, all the while keeping a close eye on the Headmaster. A moment later, his father comes through the floo, just managing to keep himself upright.

"Hello, Severus!" He gives the man a smile. Severus sneers.

"Hello, Potter. And Devlin."

Despite it bringing him nearer to the Headmaster, Devlin approaches the Potion Master.

"Hello," he says softly to the man, coming over to his side. "I found my father's old potion books. You're right, they don't look very worn." Behind him his father laughs and Albus' eyes alight with mirth, but Severus' mouth merely twitches.

"Indeed," he says flatly, as if he expected nothing else.

"Yes. I just started reading the fifth year book. It talks about the Draught of Peace, but it doesn't really properly touch on what ingredient nulls the poisons in hellebore. I suspect it is the powered moonstone along with the mandrakes."

Harry takes a moment, from behind his son, to blink in admiration. Not only was Devlin unaffected by Severus' attitude, he really was a brilliant child. Harry hadn't even noticed his books missing!

"The mandrakes interact with the hellebore only when it is in syrup form." Devlin nods eagerly.

"I hadn't thought of that!"

"Is your father bringing you to the Defense Against the Dark Art's class with him?" Harry takes a moment to realize there had been no animosity, no scathing, and no hurtfulness, in Severus' voice. Why would Severus like Devlin but detest Harry?

"Yes, sir."

"Then you might want to tell him to stop gawking and start walking, or you'll be late!" Severus turns around in his seat to sneer at Harry. Feeling more like things were 'right' in the world, or at least back to normal, Harry nodded and motioned Devlin to follow him.

"Do stop by on your way out, Harry. I have Devlin's wand."

"Will do, Albus."

The way to the Defense Against the Dark Art's classroom wasn't too long, but neither was it particularly short. Students, seeing his father, would stop and say hello or shout from across the hallway "Hey Mr. Potter!". Devlin hated all the attention – he wondered how his father managed to keep from cursing everyone around him.

"I bet you like the Muggle world for this reason," Devlin says softly.

"You don't know, maybe I'm famous there too!" He flashes a grin over his shoulder at Devlin.

"You're not, trust me." For a moment his father's footsteps falter, but then the strides even out again. Devlin holds his breath, hoping his father won't comment on his slip-up. It is far easier to slip-up around his father than his Grandfather.

"Here we are," he stops in front of a wooden door, just like the other wooden doors, except for a "Defense against the Dark Art's" engraving above the door. "Devlin, will you be alright…with me talking about the unforgivable curses?"

Devlin gives him a sidelong glance and for a moment the child before him looks much older than his eight years. The movement also highlights his similarity to Tom.

"You can talk about them all you like and it won't bother me one bit."

"What about if they're preformed?"

"All of them?"

"Yeah, all of them."

"I'll be okay," he says slowly. "I've seen them all before."

For a moment it looks like Harry wants to comment on that, but then he simply nods and opens the doors. There is a warm voice ready to greet his father on the otherside – one Devlin was not quite expecting.

"Harry!" It is Remus' voice. He had no idea Remus was the Defense Against the Dark Art's professor. He catches the werewolf's eyes for a moment and the man says kindly "And hello, Devlin." But by the time the words have left Remus' mouth, Devlin is no longer looking at him – he's looking at _everyone_ else. There are boys and girls, all dressed in uniforms and they're gazes are going back and forth between his father and himself.

The regards stir a memory and for a brief moment he remembers being three or so and his first trip to Diagon Alley and the _people_ looking at them and the women whispering about him, and his father frowning with his wand held out in the open.

"Mr. Potter is here as the Head Auror to oversee our lesson on the three unforgivable curses," Remus is saying and Devlin tries to refocus his brain. He wants to smile at Remus, but then his eyes stop focusing on the _people_ and what they're wearing instead: it is a class full of Gryffindors and Slytherins. A couple of the Slytherin's are looking at him with more than simple interest – they are watching his every move. Measuring his proximity to his father. Watching his face for a connection to Remus. Trying to determine his loyalty. All of this information gathering, surely meant for only one person – his Grandfather.

He swallows, but does not show his worry. _Don't think. Don't feel. Just do what has to be done. _

"Because the unforgivables are illegal to perform without permission from the Ministry, all practical teaching of them must be in the presence of an Auror with the ranking to give permission," Harry says, making sure to look at them all firmly. The idea of the class isn't to _teach_ the spells, it is to showcase the reasons why they are illegal. "We're not here to teach you _how_ to do these spells, I'm here to make sure you know what they are and hopefully when we're done, you'll have a better idea of why they are _illegal. _Anyone who leaves this class and performs these spells is, in the Ministry's eyes, doing so with full knowledge of the three spells effects on humans and animals alike, and their illegal nature, and will be prosecuted to the fullest extent." He glares at them for a moment.

"Does that mean you're allowed to use them whenever you want?" Some boy asks suddenly. He's a Slytherin.

His father sends the boy a look unlike Devlin has ever seen on his father's face. It is a look he would have expected from Voldemort. A look of power and warning.

"Yes it does. I am the _only_ Ministry official licensed to cast the unforgivables. Not even the Minister is allowed to cast them." The boy shrinks back a little, clearly wary of anyone who has free reign of the torture curse.

"Have you ever used it though?" A girl asks, looking nervous and fearful. Devlin looks at his father, curious as well.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss the actions I take as an Auror," he says.

"I'm sure many people have questions for Mr. Potter, but perhaps we'll have time for them _after_ the lesson. Since you are the overseer, Mr. Potter, which shall we start with?"

His father withdraws his wand and a knut. "Let's start with the most inconspicuous," his father says softly. He places the knut in his hand and swishes his wand over the coin; a moment later it is a rat.

"The Cruciatus Curse is the only unforgivable that can be blocked with a shield," he says, petting the rat. "The others, the Imperius Curse and the Killing Curse, can not be blocked, no matter how powerful your shield is. You are defenseless against their attack. The only shields that work are the non-magical ones. _However,_" he takes a moment to look them all over, "while the Imperius is not blockable like the Cruciatus Curse, it has a different weakness: the victim can make it stop. All they need is some willpower and a backbone."

Harry settles the mouse on the table and points his wand at its nervous figure. "Imperio," he whispers, and the mouse stops fidgeting and falls uncharacteristically still. "What shall I have him do? I can make him do anything I like. I could make him jump off this desk – perhaps he should get a running start."

The rat walks calmly to one side of the desk. At a look from Harry, it begins running towards the far edge.

"Stop." And the rat stops, a mere centimeter from the desks edge. "I could make him jump into an owls mouth, could make him climb into one of your backpacks, could make him drown himself. I could make him dance a jig – oh we think that one is funny do we?" He makes the mouse begin to dance. "He won't stop until I let him. He'd kill himself from exhaustion and hunger if I never told him to stop."

The classroom is silent.

"In a time of war being able to defend yourself against the Imperius Curse is often necessary. Any Wizard or Witch who would like to learn how to defend themself today, may line up over _there_," he swishes his wand and there is suddenly a line on the floor in front of the professors desk. "Being able to defend yourself will go towards your O.W.L's this year. It is the Ministry's attempt at enticing you to take your safety into your own hands." A line quickly forms, each member of it looking nervous but excited.

"Very well. Step forward and state your _first_ name and we'll get started."

"Trevor, sir." The first boy says, standing in front of Harry with determination in his eyes.

"Ready Trevor?" The boy nods. "_Imperio!"_ The boy's determination vanishes and his shoulders relax. "Trevor, hop on one leg," the boy begins to do so. "Now, sing." He begins so sing; so far off key that Devlin grimaces. "Now, lift your wand and send a stinging hex at Professor Lupin." For a moment a wisp of concern crosses the boys eyes, but then it vanishes.

"Think about what you're doing, Trevor," Lupin says gently to the boy, standing perfectly still. "He could make you curse me, or a friend, or your mother or little brother. Isn't he a first year now?" Trevor's eyes go wide and the curse, which had been leaking out his mouth, stops mid-syllable.

"No," he says softly.

"_Yes_," Harry says and that is all the boy needs. He lifts his wand and hexes Remus, who quickly blocks him and then Harry releases the curse, which Devlin knows by the tenseness that returns to the boy.

"I'm so sorry Professor!" The boy says, looking embarrassed and upset.

"It's okay Trevor," Lupin whispers, smiling at him. "You did really well."

"Indeed, that was very good. When I make the suggestion again, you have to be ready to fight it. The sooner you can shake the spell the better. If you show a Death Eater that you're a possible 'fighter' for the spell, they'll simply lay it on harder – at the first inkling of self-doubt, you _have_ to break all the way through."

The line became longer before it became shorter and then they were moving on, to Devlin's least favorite spell in the whole world: Crucio.

"As I said before, the Cruciatus Curse _is_ blockable, but Death Eaters often use this spell on defenseless wizard and witches or those who are too far injured to defend themselves, so don't count on being able to simply block it with a shield. It is called the 'torture spell' for a reason – it makes _every single_ nerve in your body feel pain."

He looks up at the room. He knows most of them can't even grasp what a medium amount of pain is, let alone the Cruciatus curse.

"You may do this one, Remus," _because I can't say it in front of Devlin. _ The werewolf lifts his wand to the little rat, still under the effects of Imperius and waiting patiently for it's torture, and whispers the curse.

The rat is twitching and withering and _shrieking _in pain. The whole of the class leans backwards at the sound.

"Does that give you a small idea of what it means to be put under the Cruciatus Curse? If held under the curse for long enough, the effects stop being temporary and become permanent. Brain damage, coma, seizures – these can all be induced by the curse. Every person's limits are different, therefore it may take one person two minutes to become permanently damaged while another person may be able to handle _hours_ without breaking. Don't leave here thinking this curse is good for revenge – you have to know that you may _permanently_ damage someone."

Abruptly, Remus lifts the curse and the rat falls still, panting.

Devlin can feel his heart slamming against his chest. He tries to stop the words before they tumble out of his mouth, but can't.

"That wasn't half as painful as it should have been," and now there are at least thirty eyes on him and Devlin wishes he could stop himself. "You have to _mean_ it. You didn't."

His eyes are on Remus' and the werewolf is looking at him sympathetically and Devlin turns to the students, just to get away from those eyes.

"Devlin brings up a good point," his father says, looking at him. "The unforgivables are not a bunch of curses you can simply _say_ and expect them to happen. You have to _mean_ to hurt someone. You have to _want_ it. You have to feel it deep in your core and mean it with every magical fiber if the spell is really going to any decent effect. As a teacher once said to me, you could probably all stand up, point your wands at me, and say "Avada Kedavra" and nothing would happen."

Devlin turns away from his father and to the floor again. He just wants it to be over.

"The Killing Curse, the final of the three, is of course the most infamous. There is no way for you to block the curse or save _yourself_ from dying, unless you still have time to dodge it or use a non-magical shield. Keep in mind that it reduces most inanimate things to ash. There is only one known way to survive the Killing Curse and it is not something you can do for yourself. When I was a baby Voldemort told my mother to step aside. She didn't. She said "take me instead" and he killed her. She died for me – a very powerful type of magic, and so when Voldemort turned his wand to me, that protection was now with me, in my blood." The class has gone hush. Devlin, of course, knows this story. He wonders if his father knows _why_ Voldemort told Lily Potter to step aside – why he gave her a chance at life.

His father lifts his wand to the rat, still looking at the students, and says "Avada Kedavra." The rat falls dead and Devlin almost thinks it is probably happier. There is a collective gasp around the room.

"That is the Killing Curse. There is nothing spectacular about it's appearance. The only significant thing about it is that it kills without symptom – it leaves behind an apparently unwounded 'healthy' corpse and the fact that, in order to perform this spell, you must _want_ to kill. Not _mean_ to kill, but _want_ it. There are powerful wizard's, like myself, that have learned to trick my magic into interpreting a 'need to do it' as a 'want', but this is not typical."

There is silence.

"We have ten more minutes, you may raise your hand if you have a question."

Devlin sighs openly in relief and when the last student has filed out the door and he starts heading that way too. His father puts a hand on his shoulder.

"There are four houses, Devlin."

Of course. They had only done the Gryffindor Slytherin houses…

And so thirty more students file in and his father pulls out another knut…

**Hope you liked this chapter. I know it took a little longer than usual, but it is 10 pages long! Ok…9 and one line but still…. **

**What did you think of my Harry on the job, writing? Did I do a good job? I imagine that if Harry had some control over things during a war, he would try to strengthen otherwise venerable populations, which would include children. Especially after Devlin's kidnapping. **

**In the Near Future: some awesome flying, Hagrid, some creatures, the talk, the journal, an owl, some snakes, etc. **

**Please REVIEW! I wrote 10 PAGES, that has to count for something, right? I took time out of my sleep to proof-read (something I don't need to do if the story is only for me!) and publish. So, pretty please with cherries on top? Come on guys, 40 people read the last chapter. Be as awesome as MissVenusVixen! Review! **

**Ask some questions, even. Suggest something. I love ideas for Devlin's childhood with Voldemort, even. **


	32. Creatures

He watches the last Ravenclaw student leave the classroom and listens half-heartedly as his father says goodbye to Remus. When his father looks over and tells him to say goodbye, he replies demurely 'goodbye Remus' and then he follows his father into the hallway. His father is giving him an appraising look but Devlin avoids the gaze – he doesn't _want_ his father to see how much the three curses bothered him.

"Aren't we supposed to go back to the Headmaster's office?" He asks, as they get further and further off the path they had taken beforehand.

"I promised you we'd have some fun, didn't I? We're headed to the Quidditch Pitch to do some flying." His father is grinning. Devlin frowns.

"I think the game is stupid," he says matter-of-factly. His father's smile turns into a pained expression and he seems to push himself to keep walking.

"Is that so?" He says, forcing his voice to remain level.

"Yes. It's all about being competitive over something that doesn't matter at all." He shoves his hands into his pockets and grins despite himself: soon his wand will be back where it belongs.

"Right…" But Devlin can hear in his father's voice that 'right' hadn't really been what he'd _meant_. "Well, we're here."

"I didn't bring my broom though."

"No, I remembered them. I took the charms off, but your mum made me promise to put some safety spells directly on you – stand still, okay?" He nods and his father raises his wand and Devlin feels like someone has glued strings to each of his limbs, then the sensation vanishes.

"So, ah, do you know how to mount a broom?" Harry asks once he's unshrunk the broom and handed it to Devlin. His son gives him a _look_ and then slowly, a smile spreads across his face.

"Yeah, course I do. We had to learn how to use them, in case of an emergency attack." His father nods, but still looks sort of uncertain. So Devlin extends his hand over his broom. He feels his magic flow into his hand and then into the air. The broom soars into his grasp. In one fluid movement, he mounts the broom and kicks off.

He'd forgotten how _freeing_ it felt to simply fly. He twists midair and suddenly instead of a slow ascent he is going almost straight up. He forces his head upward so that he can look at the approaching clouds and smiles. A moment later his father is right beside him, laughing.

"You didn't tell me how _good_ you were!" Somehow his grin seems more real, more full of life, than it had back in Remus' classroom. Devlin flashes him a smile.

"You never asked!" He shouts back, above the wind. He glances at his father for a moment, and his father's eyes widen knowingly at the challenge in his eyes.

He kicks up and suddenly his broom is pointed towards the ground and his father is shouting: "No, Devlin! Your mother is going to kill me!" But he's determined to show his father just _how_ good he is at flying. He pulls out of the nosedive with only seconds to spare, and lands lightly on the grass. He can't help it; laughter works its way through his gut and up his throat and out his mouth.

His father comes running towards him. He does a once-over with his eyes to make sure his son is uninjured and then rolls his eyes.

"Please don't tell your mother that you did that…" he mumbles. But Devlin isn't listening to him; he's staring at their audience. There are a bunch of First Years, with an instructor, there mouths open in wide O's of amazement.

"Hello Madam Hooch!" His father shouts across the field, and begins dragging him forward with him. "Sorry – I checked for practices but it entirely skipped my mind to check for First Year classes!"

There is a smile on Hooch's face. When they get close enough, she shakes his father's hand and brings him into an embrace.

"Harry! What a nice surprise. And you must be Devlin," she says kindly.

"Yes, Ma'am" he says politely.

"Where did you learn to fly that way?" She asks. "The last I saw you, you were on a little boys broom that couldn't go a foot above the ground!"

"Magical things just listen to me, brooms included," he says softly, being honest. But it wasn't the answer the professor was expecting, because she frowns a bit.

"Well, I'll be sure looking forward to having you in a couple years." He figures she is talking about when he would attend Hogwarts, so he nods politely. "We won't be using the higher air, if you want to continue, Harry."

"That's alright, Madam Hooch, I promised Hagrid we'd stop by for a bit of tea."

"Well, it was nice to see you, Harry! You and Devlin should come to the next game. It's Gryffindor vs. Slytherin!"

"I'll try to remember," Harry says over his shoulder, waving goodbye. When they'd left the pitch, he pointed out the little cottage to Devlin.

"That's Hagrid's hut."

"Whose Hagrid?"

"Oh, you'll remember him when you see him. He's impossible to forget. Dumbledore told me he'd be feeding the Thestrals." So his father leads him across the grounds and in towards the Forbidden Forest.

"Don't go here when you start attending Hogwarts without an adult – it's forbidden for a reason," he warns.

A couple yards later and Devlin can hear a distinct booming voice. He knows it belongs to a big kind man, but can't match a face to the voice.

"That'll be Hagrid," his father says enthusiastically.

Devlin scrunches his mouth, trying to remember the man.

"Hagrid?" His father shouts, the sound getting lost in all the trees. Or so he thought.

"Is that ye Harry?" Comes a booming response. "I'll send Fang ta get ye." A few moments later a great grey dog comes lumbering lazily towards them. His father extends a hand and fondly scratches the dog's ears.

"Hey Fang you old boy. Will you show us to Hagrid?" Fang turns around and leads the way back to his master.

They reach a clearing and finally Devlin can see the half-giant, who is throwing out slabs of meat onto the ground.

"Devlin, say hello to Hagrid," But Devlin can't look away. The half-giant has made it all the way across the clearing without Devlin noticing. His eyes are locked fearfully on the _things_ Hagrid had been feeding.

"What- what are those?" He asks, struggling over the words.

"The winged horses?" His father asks, as if there should be any question about _what_ Devlin is asking about. As if he'd only just considered their presence! And his voice is full of sorrow and anger and sadness. Devlin isn't sure why he should be so emotional about Devlin _seeing_ something that he'd _known_ he'd see! Why hadn't he warned him?

"Yes, _them_!" He says softly, trying to steel his emotions.

"I didn't think you would be able to see them," his father is whispering, coming over to him. Devlin looks up at him incredulously, as if to say 'how could you possibly think I wouldn't see them?'. "They are visible only to those who have seen death."

Devlin tries to digest the information. A little one, still wobbling on it's feet, approaches them and looks at him. He can feel it's magic reaching out to him. It is not an evil magic. It is not rough or dark or mean. He puts his hand out towards the small beast, assuring it of his friendliness. His father has stopped breathing. Hagrid is just beginning to say 'not sure if I'd be doin' 'at', but then the little beasts head brushes across his hand, nudging him softly. Asking to be pet.

"Animals like me, they talk to me – the magical ones," he says to the two pale, unbreathing, adults. "She didn't understand why I was afraid."

There is joy in Hagrid's eyes, as if he understands what Devlin is saying, but there is fear in his father's eyes, as if he's said something wrong. Maybe when they have that talk, his father will tell him he doesn't want Devlin to talk to animals…

"She 'ure does like ye!" Hagrid says happily. "Ye would't want ta feed 'er, would ye?"

"I guess…" Devlin says softly.

OoOoOoOo

Back at the little hut, Hagrid eagerly (and gently) grabs a box that has some things piled around it 'ta stop Fang from nosin' 'round' and lays it on a chair. When he opens it the sound of kittens mewing and meowing fills the air.

"Here, look at these little things. Arabella gave them to me ta find homes fer. Aren't they somethin' special?" His father is laughing softly while Devlin leans over the case.

"They're very odd," he says softly, frowning at them.

"No, no, they're plenty nice," he says, taking one out and handing it to him.

The small bundle of fur looks up at him and sneezes.

"She doesn't like me…" He says, quickly shoving the kitten back at Hagrid. "I think she smells me…"

"Right," Hagrid says, sighing and making to close the box. "I hadn't thought of 'at."

But before he can completely close the box, one kitten jumps out and clings to his clothing, perching itself on his shoulder. It rubs against his cheek and Devlin feels it's magic rushing out to meet his own.

_Not human, _it seems to say, it's large unblinking eyes regarding him intently.

"It's stuck to me," he says softly, when he tries to pull it off to hand back to Hagrid. It digs its claws in more and then purrs in his ears and Devlin _swears_ he hears it say '_mine'_. But he knows it isn't _him_ that hears it, it is his wolf, which is awakening quickly.

Hagrid tries to pull the cat off, to no avail. Devlin yelps in pain the harder he tries.

"What is this thing?" He asks, looking at his father.

"A half-Kneazle," his father responds, reaching out to pet the brown tiger striped cat. It allows him. "How much does Arabella want for one, Hagrid?"

"Just take 'er, Harry. Arabella has a soft spot for ye, ye know."

"Who is Arabella?" Devlin asks.

"My old babysitter," his father responds, smiling.

"Can she get this thing off me?" He shutters when he hears it, through it's magic, purr 'no, mine'.

"Er, I don't think so. But I think if we were to tell the little furball that we'd bring it home, it might let you carry it in a less painful way, yes?" The 'furball' is looking at him intently.

"Well?" Devlin asks it pointedly. It jumps off of him and onto his father's lap, where it sits and begins cleaning it's paw. "Ha, now it'll be stuck to you!" Devlin teases, grinning. The cat looks up and it's wide moss-green eyes stare pointedly at him, almost as if it is threatening to be come stuck to _him_ again. He backs up.

"I thought ye liked animals," Hagrid says, pouring them all tea. The mug is so big that he can't get his hands around the rim. His father looks over and smiles in a friendly mocking sort of way.

"I do…" he says softly, still looking at the Kneazle. "But…it's odd. Animals do what _I_ want, but it won't listen to me."

'It' looks up from it's grooming, jumps onto the table, and begins to drink Devlin's tea. '_mine_' it's eyes say, loud and clear to his wolf. His wolf is frowning in confusion.

"Are ah, Kneazle's very intelligent?"

"One of the smartest pets ye can have!" Hagrid exclaims proudly. Fang looks up from his cushion and 'huffs' indignantly.

"They're also good at telling whether someone means you harm or not."

"Are they ah, possessive?"

"I think they're like any other magical animal – they choose their owner."

oOoOoOoOo

"Is there anywhere else you'd like to see before we leave?" He asks. They had left the kitten with Hagrid after his father had promised to floo back to Hagrid's hut that evening to get her.

"Could we see the library?" His father's smile fades a little and he shrugs.

"Yeah, sure!" Devlin tries to ignore the false cheer drenching his voice as he leads them towards the library.

Somewhere between the Great Hall and the Library, Hermione Granger spots them in the hallways and shouts out: "Harry Potter, you didn't tell me you would be visiting!"

Harry turns at the voice, smiling and waiting for Hermione to reach them.

"Did you even plan to say hello?" She asks, finally reaching them.

"Well…er…no…"

"You didn't even tell me you were coming today!"

"Yeah, I know. I kinda forgot myself, though. Dumbledore had to remind me I'd scheduled this like three months ago."

She seems to just notice the boy standing beside him. They've only met once or twice.

"How are you liking Hogwarts, Devlin?"

"I like it just fine," he says softly, but in reality he wants to drag his father away from her to the library. "Dad was going to bring me to the library," he hints, sending his father an impatient glance.

"Ooh, that's my favorite place at Hogwarts. Come on, I'll show you." And she reaches out and takes his hand, a grin on her face. Walking right next to her, hand in hand, makes him breath in her scent and he scrunches up his nose at the memories the smell brings. She'd always gotten him books for his birthday. She was married to Ronald. She babysat him a lot. She had a cat that looked like a lion. She'd gotten him Zee's collar that was charmed to keep the dog in their yard.

But there is something more, something _different_. His eyes widen and his eyes spins around to look at his father questioningly, but his father just glances back at him, confused about his regard. There is only one female Death Eater and Grandfather says she is too 'eager' to be left alone with a child. As such, he's never known this before, and isn't sure _how_ he knows, just that he does. If it's this obvious, she must know too.

He lets her lead him to the Library and lets her open the doors. His eyes widen in awe and he lets go of her hand gently and simply _looks _at it all.

"It's amazing!" He says in a hush whisper. Some eyes turn to him but then quickly turn back to their books.

"It is, isn't it?" There is a smile on her face. "You know…I used to watch you a lot for your mom and dad, if you ever want to come read some books…you could always hang out with me." He hugs her.

"Thanks!" He whispers. The different scent is making his head spin a bit – his wolf keeps whispering in his ear to be _nice_ because one is always nice in situations like this.

"Hermione?"

"Yes?" She says, smiling down at him as if something missing had returned to her.

"What are you gonna name it?"

"Name what?"

"The baby, of course."

She stops breathing for a moment and turns her head a little, looking down at him in pure confusion.

"What baby?"

He tips his head.

"Ah," he frowns, certain he must have misspoken and they're having some sort of misunderstanding, "yours."

"I don't have any children," she says, relaxing a bit.

"Well if you _did_ they'd already have names," he says, "I meant the one in your tummy." Surely she'd known. But apparently she hadn't, because she goes quite pale.

"What?"

Behind her his father is chuckling, but he stops as soon as Hermione's eyes land on him.

"Sorry," he says, raising his hands in a show of surrender, "It's just, he's doing it all so _innocently_. It's hilarious, trust me."

"Harry James Potter, this is not 'hilarious'." She turns back to him and in a soft, sweet voice says: "Devlin, sweetie, what do you mean a baby in my tummy?"

"Well…I can't see the baby, but I think that's were they're _supposed_ to be…"

"Yes, yes, but _why_ do you think there is one in my tummy?"

"Oh!" Now it made sense, she _didn't_ know and she thought he was just being silly. Maybe she thought he was calling her fat like Quincy had once said someone had made the mistake of doing with his wife when she _wasn't_ pregnant. "I don't, but my wolf does. Your scent is different."

"Oh, I see…" but it is clear that she wasn't as comfortable as her words make it seem.

"Can I go look at some books?" He asks his father, eager to get away from her. He's not sure what to do next and neither is his wolf. Obviously, he's done one of those 'wolfish' things that humans find uncomfortable.

"Yeah, sure. Give a shout if you get lost. Don't go through any doors without me." He nods and scurries away. He can hear Hermione whispering feverishly about 'how to tell Ronald'.

For a time he walks around browsing the books, until he wanders upon row after row of _newspapers_. There is a row that says 'Daily Profit Achieve' and suddenly a memory springs into his mind.

_We've discussed this before, Devlin. You're father isn't looking for you. He gave up._

It hadn't been the only time his Grandfather had said so. He's often said that his father had _known_ who had kidnapped him and never once sought his revenge. '_I punish those who dare to raise their wand to you, but Potter has never laid a finger on Mr. Malfoy.' _

He looks over at Hermione and his father, still deep in conversation, and steps into the isle. He reaches a hand out slowly to brush across the papers as he passes. If his father really _had_ looked for him, the papers would have published about his struggle. He would have _made_ it public.

He finds the year of his kidnapping and begins to work his way backwards. If it were important, it would be on the front page.

And then at last he sees his father's face and his mother's face and Uncle Sirius and Remus and Ronald and Hermione and _him_. Except he isn't standing there with all of them, he's laying down, in a casket. The photo is grainy and Devlin expects no one there had known they were being photographed. Along the side of the column is a picture of him as a younger child with his father, dressed in his Auror uniform. His eyes jump to the headline.

DEVLIN POTTER'S FUNERAL HELD AT GODRIC'S HALLOW TODAY.

_Devlin Potter, kidnapped by You-Know-Who almost three weeks ago, is now confirmed dead. The body was portkeyed into the Ministry, not only rising alarms about the child's death, but also about the Ministry's security. Before the press could arrive, the body had been taken away, but eyewitnesses say it was 'badly bruised' 'he had bruises on his arms and legs, like he'd been held prisoner' and that he was half-starved. It is assumed that he was brutally tortured to death. _

_He was buried today in Godric's Hallow next to his grandparents. Harry Potter remains out of the office and unwilling to speak… _

His hands are shaking and his vision is swarming and he only just manages to shove the newspaper back at the sound of approaching footsteps. His father rounds the corner, still smiling.

**As always, I hope you like this chapter. I have the WHOLE next chapter ready at this point. PLEASE REVIEW so I can post the next one! I also have about five pages of the chapter AFTERthe next one written... come on guys!  
><strong>

**In other news, next week I'm going to start looking for a beta reader. I want clean up any little mistakes and I also want to post it on some different sites. Once I get one, I'll try to keep chapters coming out as quickly. Honestly, I usually have the next chapter **_**entirely**_** written before I post this next one, but I just like giving it some time to simmer. :) **

**In the near future: The Talk, why Devlin saw the Thestrals, more about the kitten, More about Devlin's reaction to the article, etc  
><strong>

**Anyways, please review! **


	33. The Deal

"Hey, I wondered where you got too. This is a rather boring area…"

"I got lost," he murmurs, shrugging. He can't look his father in the eye.

"Yeah, it's easy to get lost at Hogwarts. Was there something you wanted to look at before we head home?"

"No, I'm ready." And he _was._ He wanted nothing more than to be somewhere _else_ - somewhere with lots of pictures of him smiling and laughing and _alive_.

"Alright, then lets go see Albus about your wand." He almost falls to his knees at the reminder that he's not _done_ yet. But he nods instead and drags his feet to follow his father's out of the library and back onto the path to the Headmaster's Office.

Severus is no longer in the office and Dumbledore is sitting there, filling out paperwork.

"Ah, Harry, Devlin, good to see you again. Would you like a spot of tea?"

"No thank you Dumbledore, I told Alex we'd be home in time for lunch."

"Ahh, of course! Well then, I suspect I should give you your wand back, young Mr. Potter." Devlin can't even muster the excitement he knows he should feel. He simply nods. "Is something on your mind, child?"

"I'm tired," he says softly, hoping the excuse will work. He gets the sense that Dumbledore knows he is lying, but Devlin doesn't care.

"Very well, your wand _did_ have some spells on it, but I have removed them. None were strong enough to track him inside of your wards, Harry." His father nods and Albus stretches his hand out with Devlin's wand. Devlin reaches over and takes it slowly, letting the magic seep into him and sooth his nerves, just a bit. "Have a good evening, then."

His father says a more proper goodbye and then they are tumbling through the floo and Devlin is landing on his hands and knees and that's all he needs to push his nerves over the edge. He rushes to his feet and out of the room, past his bewildered mother and smiling sister and into the bathroom by the kitchen. He is _sick_.

He lunges towards the toilet, grabbing hold and arching his back as he throws up, over and over. Just the thought of that picture and article makes him throw up again and he thinks of it several times in the minute it takes his mother and father to follow him to the bathroom. Just when he thinks the worst is over, that his stomach is empty and all he can do is dry-heave, his mother speaks and he looks over and he sees them standing _together_ just like they had in the photograph. His stomach might be empty of food, but it had plenty of bile left.

"Devlin, sweetie, do you want a potion?" He nods, more to make her go away than out of a need for the potion. He'll feel sick even if his stomach can't heave in protest along with him.

What had she thought of him when she'd seen him that first time in his father' office? Had she thought he was a ghost? Had she thought maybe _he_ was the fake one?

His father is wetting a towel in the sink, his eyes on him and Devlin tries terribly hard to not throw up again, because he doesn't want them to see him like this. It's useless though – the moment his father touches the cold cloth to his forehead, he pukes again.

"It'll be okay, Devlin."

"Don't leave," he says, even though he's not sure why he says it at all.

"Never, ever," his father says, almost like he understands the true meaning of Devlin's words.

It hits Devlin in another moment of sick realization that his father and mother had never given up him – they had thought he was dead. They had waited for the proof and that proof had been enough to fool everyone.

He begins to cry, even as his stomach continues to torment him.

"Shhh, it's okay. Mum will bring the potion in just a second – she has to get one from Severus, I think. I'll stay right here, but I'm going to get the towel wet again," Devlin nods to show he understands, but he dare not lift his head.

If that boy in that photograph hadn't been _him_, then who had it been? Even the Darkest of Magic could not create such an 'authentic' body, without a body to act as the _starting_ point. Under all that falseness had been a real child; a _dead_ child.

_Who died for me?_ The thought makes him sick again, except now his stomach is even empty of bile so he just keeps retching. He thinks his body wants to turn him inside out.

"Devlin, please tell me what happened. Was it because I let you watch? I knew I should have made Hermione watch you, or Sirius." His father is wiping his face with the cloth, grabbing a fresh one and wiping down his neck. It feels good, even if he's treating him like a small child.

"No!" He groans, because the idea that merely watching the unforgivables would make him this weak is horrifying. He's not a _baby_.

"Then what happened?"

Devlin shakes his head. He doesn't want to say it to his father. Doesn't want to voice it. Doesn't want to _hear_ it.

"Your mom is going to think I let someone poison you…" His father whispers, pleading with him.

"No poison," he whispers between retching.

"Yeah, I know that, but she won't believe me…"

He looks sidelong at his father.

"Wasn't lost," he whispers, before he's caught in a retching fit again. His head hurts from all the heaving. "Was looking at them."

It takes his father a moment to comprehend what he means.

"The newspapers?" He nods and his head throbs in protest. "Why?"

_To see if you loved me. _

But he won't say that aloud.

"For _me_," he says, looking sidelong again at him. His hair is sweaty now. He feels cold and his _head_ hurts. He decides he better get the words out now, before he's unable. "Saw the one with mom and you and everyone and me _dead_."

He sees his father close his eyes and sigh and reach towards him, but Devlin is already falling to the side, shaking. The abyss is swallowing him.

And then there is nothing but the _pain_. It is everywhere. It is in the darkness, stabbing at his skin every time he moves, crushing him while he is still. It is inside of him; he can feel it searing his nerves as it rushes through him. It is in his mind, in his eyes, on his tongue and lips. It wants to make him scream, and this time he does, because there is no one to think him weak. He feels his mouth open and hears his scream. His back is arching; pins from beneath pushing him up. His body is shaking from all the pain inside him as it boils his blood.

Suddenly, it all stops and he curls himself into a ball and breathes for what feels like the first time in hours. The cool air soothes his exhausted lungs. His whole body is still, every inch of it throbbing at the remembrance of the pain. He wishes he would fall unconscious, like he used to, but his body has grown too accustomed to the pain for it to render him unaware.

There are arms around him, holding him close. Fingers are carding through his hair. There is a voice, breathing, no singing, into his hair. He leans back towards the song. He remembers this song.

Finally, he opens his eyes and finds that he is still in the bathroom and it is his mother holding him, singing to him softly. Carding her hands through his hair. He smiles softly.

"Hi, mama," his says. She grabs onto him tighter.

"Oh, Merlin Devlin, you scared me!"

"Sorry," he whispers, letting her kiss his hair.

Instead of speaking, she simply breathes into his hair. It reminds Devlin of Geoffrey.

"If we had known, Devlin…" She whispers, her voice tight. "Harry never gave up, he never did. Not after Maria came back to her father. But…it was so _painful_ to hope about something that had such clear evidence against it. The Ministry tested that body and then any other wizard or witch your father could get, often through steep favors, tested it too. The most renowned medi-wizards and ward breakers – they all tested it. And they all said: "this is Devlin Potter"." She is crying into the nape of his neck. "I know what Tom is like, I couldn't imagine him having any mercy towards a child."

"Mercy?" Devlin whispers, turning his head so that his mother can see his pursed lips and furrowed brow.

"He let you live, I could never have imagined that."

"That wasn't mercy. He meant to kill me," Devlin breathes, lifting his body and putting his head into the nape of her neck. "And then I think his curiosity got the better of him."

"Curiosity of what?" His mother asks, but it is his father who Devlin is regarding now, as he stands at the bathroom door, hands in his pockets, fear and sorrow mixing in his eyes.

"He was raised by muggles who punished him for his magic, who didn't understand him – he wanted to see what would happen if…his magic had been encouraged. I reminded him of himself."

His father's eyes close for the briefest moment, his mother's heart doesn't even miss a beat. His father, Devlin can see, is terrified of that similarity, but his mother really doesn't seem surprised. Perhaps she'd always seen it all along.

"I'm sorry he grew up that way, if he had been more well cared for, he might not be the person he is today," she whispers, rubbing his back. "But his experiment with you wasn't a very good one – if that were his only goal he should have left you with us and left us alone to have you grow up in a family, like he should have."

"Grandfather likes to be in control," Devlin whispers, still looking at his father. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, hoping they'll both drop the subject.

"Hermione came over with some pain relief draughts, do you want any?"

"They don't work," he says softly, even though he knows he's told them before. "I built an immunity and it's not safe to give me the doses that do work. The Healers think if I avoid them for a couple years, they'll regain their effectiveness. At least, that's what they said to Grandfather."

"Then what do you do if you get severely injured?" His father asks.

"I just wasn't supposed too," he says, as if this is a simple thing to accomplish amongst Death Eaters.

"The other Death Eaters…they never hurt you?"

He blinks.

"If you were a Death Eater, would you have hurt me?"

"I can't imagine hurting you in any circumstances."

"Belletrix used to call me Voldemort's little Prince. Grandfather said the nickname was just one more example of Bella's well-meant insanity, but the name caught on and it made people _afraid_ of me. There was one Death Eater, when I was really little, who made a mistake, but…that never happened again." His eyes glaze over as he thinks back to that moment.

"Let's get some lunch, okay?" Devlin nods at his mother's words, eager for a change of topic and scene.

oQoQoQoQ **Devlin's first witness to Death **oQoQoQoQ

He can hear it sizzling through the air, pushing gravity and particles and _matter_ aside to reach its aim – him. He feels fear fill him and then he remembers how useless fear had been, and lets the anger wash over him.

_How dare he!_

He doesn't scream, he growls, deep and loud and full of aggression. The air fizzes around him, like the sound from a fast-growing fire, and his vision goes hazy. Except, it is an odd sort of haziness and he realizes quite suddenly that it is something _real_. The sizzling spell collides with the hazy substance and explodes onto its surface.

He glares at the Death Eater, who wouldn't have dared to do that if his Grandfather had been in the room. He's a young man, probably no older than twenty, and newly branded. Perhaps no one had told him not to mess with the dark haired, green-eyed boy about yay-high.

Around the room the other Death Eater's go hush and the man looks at him, both unexpectedly surprised at his magical ability, and surprised at the silence.

"Erney," One Death Eater says softly, hesitantly. He looks young too, but he can't remember his name. "Put you're wand down_ now_."

"Are you stupid, McCoy? The Dark Lord told me not to let _anyone_ get in!" The McCoy fellow looks around but when the other door sweeps open to readmit Voldemort, he steps back into the crowd, sending Erney one last sad look.

Voldemort stops mere steps into the room, sensing the change in atmosphere. His red eyes scan the room until they fall upon him and his hazy substance. Now that the anger is gone, the fear is sinking in quickly.

"Who is to blame?" He commands, his voice so calm and quiet that it sent a shiver through the room. There were no quick shouts, but Geoffrey had finally fought his way through the crowd and made it to his side, where he falters under Voldemort's regard. He knows that if his Grandfather weren't there, Geoffrey would have drawn him into a hug and carried him away, like a pup, but because they are not alone, he defers to Voldemort, who hasn't given orders to take him away.

"T'was Erney, M'Lord," says McCoy, looking at the other with sorrow. He had warned the man. Twice.

"I see," Voldemort begins, striding towards him. He reaches a hand out and swooshes away his hazy substance as if it were a spider web or bit of smoke. His long fingers touch his chin and lift his face and he knows Voldemort is looking for damage. But there isn't any. The fingers stay there, while his other hand lifts into the air.

Lazily, as if it were so inconsequential that it didn't even need his visual focus, he lifts his wand to point it at Erney. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the man's eyes go wide and his body tense. Geoffrey is swallowing and wringing his hands, like he wants to drag him away.

"_Avada Kedavra." _His Grandfather whispers, still looking at him. His eyes aren't looking up at his Grandfather; they are stretched to their peripheries, watching the man drop to the ground. Watching him as he becomes instantly motionless. Watching as all that tenseness leaves him. Watching as he doesn't get up.

He doesn't scream. He doesn't pull away from his Grandfather. He hardly even blinks. The man is dead, he's certain of it. _He hurt you,_ his mind whispers, _when Grandfather told no one to hurt you_.

"Good boy," his Grandfather whispers, so quietly he almost misses the words. His eyes balls swing back to his Grandfather.

"Geoffrey, take the boy to his room and find out why he left it in the first place." And so Geoffrey drags him out, like a pup.

OoOoOoOoO

"Devlin, will you come to my study with me?" He looks up from the sofa, where he'd been relaxing since dinner. He feels a shiver run down his spine as he lifts his body up. He gives him mum a glace, but she is smiling kindly from her place near Emma, as if she isn't concerned.

"Yes, sir," he whispers, putting his book down and meeting his father at the living room door. Together they walk to his study. He steps in and waits for his father to sit first, then follows suit. He sits on his hands, because he knows he won't be able to stop them from fidgeting.

"I wanted to have that talk with you, since it has sort of been settled between us, uncomfortably."

Devlin nods, to show he's listening.

"Originally I just wanted to talk to you about the Bowman attack, but we've already covered that."

"And anything else I think you ought to know," Devlin adds softly.

"Pardon?"

"That's what you said: and you'll be sure to tell me about anything else you think I ought to know."

"Yeah, I guess I did. Is there anything else you think I ought to know?"

"Yes."

_**[I ALMOST ENDED THE CHAPTER HERE….]**_

His father's eyes are full of fear and anticipation and worry. Devlin doesn't let himself look away, not matter how much he wants too.

"What?" His voice is wavering, as if a good deal of him doesn't really _want_ Devlin to answer.

"I told him things. Told him things about you and mum and Ronald and Hermione and things around our house."

"Devlin-"

"I'm not done," he says sharply, because he knows if he interrupts him, he won't be able to finish. "I made him like me, I told him the things he wanted to know about me. He asked me how good I was at magic and I told him and that's the only reason he kept me alive. And I lied to you, I got smarter and I could have escaped. He caught me the first time and he _hurt_ me because I'd tried, but I knew, years later, that I could have gone farther before he noticed. I learned about under aged magic when I was six. I was able to steal prisoner's wands by the time I was seven. But I never tried again."

"Why not?" There is hurt in his father's voice, but also understanding.

"He knew I could do it. He said to me that I was more powerful than he at the same age, which he was proud of, but I think also a little unsettled about. He was angry for a long time, because 'I see now what those muggles truly did to me', but finally he sat me down and said I was old enough to understand a 'deal'."

His father is still staring at him, each fighting not to lower their regard.

"So we made a deal that he knew would keep me there for as long as he wanted."

"What deal?" The words are a breathy whisper.

"That he would leave Emma and Mum alone as long as I did not try to escape again."

"I see…"

"That's why I had to say those things to Malfoy. Grandfather might have thought _I_ planned the escape, when I didn't."

**Hope you liked the chapter. I am actually pretty proud of this one, as well as what I've gotten done on the next one.**

**In the next chapter we get to see, from Voldemort's perspective, why he let Devlin live. **

**Anyways, please review, or I'll go back to short chapter sand cliffhangers! Ha! *Evil Laugh* **


	34. The Journal

_The boy hadn't screamed and that had been significant and different, but now that he is not being tortured, Voldemort can't seem to pinpoint anything truly special about him. Perhaps it had been mere luck? Perhaps it had merely been his more feral brain? Perhaps he had destroyed the significant and different part?_

_If the boy wasn't of value, he should be killed. But he had to be certain. So for the first time since lifting the curse, Voldemort approaches the boy. _

"_Leave us," he says to the Healer that that has been watching the boy around the clock. The man bows and walks quickly to the door, shutting it behind him. The boy had been sitting comfortably against his pillows, staring at his hands. He looks up. _

_He's running a fever and sweating. His hair is slicked back against his skull and Voldemort realizes how much he looks like him. Yes, there are notes of that Mudblood Lily Evan's in his eyes and freckles, but the shape of his face is Tom Riddle. The way which his eyes move, intelligently and analytically, unnerve Voldemort for their similarity. _

_Yet there is no gauntness to his cheeks; he has been well fed. There is no paranoia; he knows why he is 'different' (if he knows he is different at all). He has never been called the devil by Muggles, or a freak, or an abomination. He is a healthy child with an awareness of who he is – mostly. Perhaps they look more alike than anyone can know, because Tom Riddle hadn't appeared how he would have, had he been well cared for._

_For a moment Voldemort wonders. He wonders what he would have been like, if he hadn't grown up around filthy Muggles, if he hadn't been kept just-well-enough fed, if he hadn't been ridiculed but encouraged in his magic. _

…_but first he has to know if the boy is intelligent enough, both magically and mentally. _

"_Can you control your magic?" He asks softly, calculatingly. The boy blinks, obviously surprised by his words. _

"_Too well," he says automatically. "That's what everyone says." He wants to please him, because he is afraid. Voldemort doesn't really care what the boy feels – he can sense his honesty and that is all that matters. _

"_An example?" Wasn't the boy intelligent enough to surmise that he would want an example? _

"_I can make things come to me, like grown-up's do with their wands, but I don't need to say its name. I just have to think it. I can tell Zee what to do, and he understands me. I can cheat at hide-and-seek." _

_For a moment he is taken aback by the child's answer. _

"_How do you cheat?"_

"_When someone is about to find me, I can disappear to a new hiding spot." So he can use Apparition. _

_Is this what he would have been like, if he had grown up among Wizard's and not Muggles? _

"_What about when you are angry?" He is half-expecting the boy to say, "I can make bad things happen to people who are mean to me." Instead he frowns and wrings his hands, as if ashamed. _

"_I break things, but I don't mean to. They shatter. Sometimes they turn to dust and then the dust spins around – like a hurricane." So the boy hadn't learned violence. Where in his little life had it been necessary to learn that you couldn't appear weak, and causing pain to others seemed to scream 'I am not weak'? Because he hadn't been raised among filthy Muggles. _

"_Can you speak to snakes?" The boy's lips turn downward, not in the negative, but in the uncertain. His eyes are mirroring this emotion. _

"_I donno…" he says, and Voldemort expects to see fear in his eyes, because he must know he isn't pleased with such an answer, but instead he merely sees worry. There is not much difference between worry and fear, but the latter is slightly better. He looks the boy up and down. There are many a grown Wizard or Witch that would not have come through what the boy had looking as well as him, or speaking so sanely. _

_Just when he is about to turn around, the boy starts shaking in fear. He realizes he hadn't replied to the boy's unsatisfactory answer, and opens his mouth to say: "It is easy enough to find out," when the shaking becomes so pronounced that he knows it isn't caused by fear. The boy looks like he's under Crucio. He strides over to the door and yanks it open, calling for the Healer, who comes rushing into the room. _

"_What is happening?" He tries to keep his voice calm and his wand in its holder (lest he curse the Healer in his impatience), but both are difficult. He'd just decided to spare the child and here he is obviously dying in front of him! _

_The Healer turns around, pale and looking like he's resigned to die. "The boy has seizures, My Lord, from the Cruciatus Curse."_

"_So fix it!" Voldemort shouts. He has cast this curse numerous times, seen bodies twitch and spasm even when it has been lifted before, and killed them hours or days later – never once has he considered whether the effects would continue inevitably. _

"_My Lord, there is no cure…" _

_Voldemort turns to the boy, watching his back arching, his eyes swerving back and forth beneath their eyelids, his muscles going through spasms, and frowns ever-so-slightly. _

"_How painful is it?" The boy isn't even moaning, perhaps it merely makes the body re-act what it had been like, without the pain. He isn't sure why that matters, but since his brain is demanding the answer, he knows it is of importance. _

"_Each seizure is like another dose of the original curse." Voldemort turns once more to the boy and the convolutions take on new meaning. It is one thing for Voldemort to torture him, but it is another for the torturing to happen outside of Voldemort's control. It is not that he cares whether the boy feels pain, because he doesn't, but Voldemort likes control, and this is not within his control. _

"_If there is no existing cure, then make one," his tone of voice leaves no room for argument and the Healer slinks out of the room, certain of his death and the death of all of Voldemort's Potion Masters. _

_Voldemort transfigures a book into an armchair and sits down, watching the boy. He feels no need to comfort the child – he is not concerned about the pain, merely that it is out of his control. It is a long time until the boy falls still, beads of sweat covering his body and making him almost shimmer. He is unconscious. Voldemort approaches him and brushes the hair out of his face, unclenches his fists, and lays him out flat on the bed once more. He regards him for a long moment, remembering every detail. Finally, he sweeps out of the room and into the prison tent. They must have another boy about his age – he needs to make a copy to send to Potter. He wants Potter to think his son is dead. _

"_My Lord!" The Guard says, stopping in his tracks. It is rare for him to come to the prison tent and he knows he's surprised them. _

"_I need a boy, about four or five, or near that height. If you do not have one, go find a Muggle fitting the description. Bring him to me __**alive**__, no later then sunset." With his demand given, he sweeps out of the room and back to Headquarters, where he waits. _

**OoOoOoOoO**

"Do you have anything you want to ask me?" His father says, as if he isn't the least bit anxious about what Devlin has shared with him. Devlin sees through the mask.

"Yes, sir, there is."

"Go ahead, whatever it is, I'll do my best to answer."

"Who was he if he wasn't me?" His father's brow furrows and his mouth purses, as if he doesn't quite understand what Devlin means to say.

Then dawning horror reaches his eyes, his brows, his mouth and finally his shoulders, which slouch in half-defeat.

"I don't know," he says softly.

"Do you think…you'll know?"

"I hope we will. I would like to offer the boy's family some closure, be they Magical or Muggle. In all honesty, though, we were never able to figure out that it wasn't _you_. Without a lead to go on, we'll probably never be able to figure it out."

He feels his world swarming around him, making him dizzy. His heart is beating roughly against his chest. He opens his mouth to speak.

"Harry?" He spins to look at the fireplace, now an emerald Green with a ladies head in it he hasn't met before. She looks an awfully lot like Ron.

"Hey, Ginny. What's up?"

"I, ah, need some papers that you have on file."

"Oh, right. Come on through."

She is pretty in that matter-of-fact way. Nothing about her dress or hair says she's tried to look pretty or wants someone to think of her as 'beautiful' but she just is. He smiles hesitantly back at her when she smiles at him.

"The file Alex talked to you about."

His father opens up the large trunk behind his desk (it looks like an old beat up school trunk) and rummages around. Devlin watches him with a half-focus as he gets the file out from the trunk. Right now his sense of smell is eating up the majority of his focus. _Him_. He smells himself, and Grandfather, and Geoffrey and dry, abused, parchment. He smells his journal. He'd know the smell anywhere. Suddenly he knows what that shrunken book had been. And suddenly he remembers his father had never returned the item to him. He also knows _where_ it is.

"Thanks, Harry." The trunk snaps shut and his father bids her goodbye.

"Bye, Devlin!" She calls out, waving nicely at him. He nods, too shocked.

His father seats himself behind the desk again.

"Where were we?"

"You wanted to offer closure to the family."

"Mmmhmm, then you opened your mouth. What were you going to say?"

"…that I would like that too…" Except that _hadn't_ been what he was about to say. The momentary interruption had let him catch himself. It was better his father _never_ know.

Now he just had to get that journal before he read it!

**OoOoOoOoO A Few Weeks Later OoOoOoOoO**

Devlin feels as if he is in a trance. His feet have carried him to this door, but his heart keeps telling him to turn around. His arm reaches forward, even as his heart thumps loudly over and over again: _don't do it…don't do it…don't do it…_

And now he is staring at the books and the three comfy chairs and the large cherry desk. His feet move him forward into the room and he stands at its center, staring at the large wooden truck behind the desk. He had noticed it when his father had opened it while they had been talking and Devlin had _smelled_ it. The thing his Grandfather had sent him. That musty smell; part barrack's, part Headquarters, part Geoffrey, Grandfather, tutors and most of all himself. _His journal._ That must have been what Grandfather had sent him, his journal. He had to get it before his father found out its secrets.

He is afraid if he waits any longer, he'll discover all the secrets.

_No…no…no_ his heart thumps, urging him not to break the rules. They trust him.

_But they don't trust me…_

If they had, they would have given him the journal. They would have at least _told_ him what his Grandfather had given him. They would have at least said 'we won't read this, we promise'. It didn't have good things in it. It hadn't been a true journal – Devlin had always known his Grandfather was reading every word. There was no mention of Maria or the Muggle village. There is no empathy inside of those pages. There is only what Grandfather would have been proud to see.

He reaches a hand out to the chair next to him, feeling weak in his knees.

'_Don't leave' _

'_Never, ever'_

His blood is rushing behind his ears, pounding in his head, and drumming against his ribcage. He takes another step forward. He can reach it now. He touches the trunk. The polished wood is warm and cold at the same time. It makes him shiver a bit.

'_Devlin, I wish you trusted me.'_

'_I can't tell you. I just can't. I can't talk to you. I don't want you to hate me.'_

'_I would never hate you Devlin.' _

He backs away quickly and climbs into one of the chairs, curling up and crying silently.

Mere moments later there are footsteps in the hallway and lights flickering on above him and his father is opening the door, his wand out before him, ready for a fight. Devlin, crouched so that he can just look above the back of the chair, cringes.

"Show yourself," his father demands, his voice booming and strong in a way Devlin has never heard it. "Show yourself_ now_."

He doesn't know what to do. He cries silently, wishing he could just disappear.

"This is your last _verbal_ warning."

"I'm sorry," he sobs. For a moment relief spreads across his father's face, then it drowns itself in worry.

"Devlin, are you alone?" And suddenly Devlin understands the worry – that someone had broken into his father's home for _him_ again.

"Yes," he whispers.

"Devlin, I'm sorry buddy but I need to _see _you're alone." His wand is still perfectly angled, his body tense and poised. Devlin realizes how much of an opponent his father must make. It makes him shiver.

"Oh…okay." He slinks out from behind the chair and comes to stand, shaking, in front of his father. He keeps his eyes cast onto the floor and his shoulder's hunched.

"Devlin why were you breaking into my trunk?" There is no anger in his voice, merely disappointment and curiosity, as if he hasn't decided which one to truly let himself feel. He tucks his wand back up his sleeve. Devlin realizes he wears it even when he's sleeping.

"I…wanted to know what was in there." Now the curiosity is paired with worry and doubt. Devlin isn't sure why.

"It's all private. It's not things for little boys to know about."

He sniffles.

"I'm not little," he says automatically. His father laughs a bit.

"Yeah, you _are_. It's for grown-ups."

"You mean it is Order Stuff. I remember all about them." His father has gone pale.

"If you suspected as much, Devlin, why would you have attempted to open the trunk?"

"Because you had something of _mine_ in there," he says softly. His father is even more pale, the pallor making him look ill. "Don't you think a book that I've had for _years_ wouldn't begin to _smell_ like me? You opened the truck while we were talking…I smelled it. It's my journal."

"It's a journal from _him_, Devlin."

"But it's still _mine._ It's private stuff." But his father doesn't look too curious and that is when Devlin _knows_ that he knows and his whole world, so new and fresh and shiny, crumbles around him. "You _read_ it," he chokes out.

His father swallows.

"Not all of it," he defends.

"But _enough_," he growls, feeling his wolf rear up in defense of this mental-attack.

"Enough to know that he filled your head with horrible things about me? Yeah. But Devlin, I knew he would have done that. I expected that."

So he _didn't_ know. Surely it would have been his example.

"I want it back," he says firmly, feeling hope spread through him like a pepper-up potion.

"No."

"It's _mine_."

"You don't need to relive any of those memories, Devlin."

Except Devlin didn't want to relive them, he wanted to hide them.

"I don't want you to read them," he says venomously.

"Your mother already made me swear," his father says.

"I want it later," he adds, so that he father knows he isn't relinquishing power. "And I want to make sure the password is working."

"There was no protection on it whatsoever," of course there hadn't been, his Grandfather had wanted him to open it even if they had taken his wand from him. "But I can lock it for you and you can set the password." Devlin nods.

His father walks over to the truck, rummages around and pulls out the journal. Devlin's breath catches at how close he is to his most prized possession. His father taps the leather and murmurs a sophisticated locking charm.

"I'll give you a minute to choose the password," he says, leaving the journal on the desk and going to stand in the hallway. Devlin knows he has only moments. He scrambles towards the paper and opens the journal for what he knows will be the last time in a long time. With a shaking hand he nicks one of his fathers quill and turns to a blank page and writes: _Dear Journal, I'm so sorry I can't keep you._ And he closes the cover and whispers his new password: "The Dark Prince."

His father won't guess that one, he's pretty sure.

He leaves it on the desk and goes to his father out in the hallway.

"I'm done."

"Okay." He watches him put the journal away. "You can ask me whenever for it back, but your mother and I will decide when you're old enough to relive those things." Devlin nods. He can't act more suspicious.

"I understand," he says. "As long as you can't read it, that's okay." It really wasn't, but right now Devlin couldn't be weak, he had to be cunning and strong.

"Let's get you back in bed."

**Does anyone sense some sub-plots hatching in this chapter? Hear them now? They're going 'cheep' 'chirp' 'squeek'. **

**Not all is how it seems. **

**Do you honestly think an eight year old would tell their father **_**everything**_** they should know? Yeah, right! Although, he came pretty close, didn't he. No, Devlin is smart enough to tell his father the things that his father might suspect and the things that he thinks will make his father proud. Don't you think four years with Lord Voldemort would teach anyone a bit of manipulation? **

**By the way, I'm actively seeking a beta reader. Anyone interested? You'd get to know the inside plot points before anyone else! :)**


	35. The Surprise

**WARNING: sappiness ahead (sorry…it is necessary for subtle plot points to come…) **

Things at the Potter household settle down for the most part. Autumn becomes Winter and this results, quite suddenly, in an increase in adults whispering amongst each other, gathering around the kitchen table with paper and quills, and lots of giggles from Emma, who seems, for once, able to keep a secret.

Devlin thinks he is the only one in the whole world who doesn't _know_ what they are whispering about. Whenever he steps into a room, the topic quickly changes. He is becoming more than a little annoyed.

And then one day Ginny and Hermione and his mother are sitting around the table, silently. Smiling. Mischievous. He growls.

"We're going flying, Devlin." His father says from behind him. He swings around to find his father holding out his broom and ushering him to the fireplace.

"What if I don't want to?"

"Doesn't matter. We're being kicked out."

"Kicked out?" He asks, unbelieving.

"Mmmhmmm, your mom says it's a 'girl's day' so we gotta leave. Do you really want to listen to them talk about hair and make-up and household spells, anyways?" His mother didn't often talk about those things, but then again, she didn't often have both Hermione and Ginny over at the same time. Perhaps 'girl day's' were real things after all…

"No…" So he took his broom and let his father send him to Hogwarts via the Floo. This time they landed in Remus's office, instead of the Headmaster's.

"Devlin!" Remus said kindly, coming over to help him up. "How have you been?"

"Alright," he said slowly, still a little peeved at Remus from the week before when the man had refused to tell him what everyone was discussing in the kitchen. He had thought Remus would have been his savior.

"It's good to see you," he says softly, brushing the worst of the Floo dust off his robes for him.

"Hey, Remus. Thanks for letting us use the fire," Harry says, coming out of the floo relatively gracefully.

"Sure thing. I'll let you boys get to flying, then. I have papers to grade." Except there weren't any papers out on his desk and Remus always kept them right _there_. Devlin frowned, feeling that paranoia creeping up on him, building more and more.

"See ya!" And his father leads him out the door and through the castle and out to the pitch.

"Let's have a race," his father says to him, once they are out on the pitch and he's getting ready to mount his broom.

"Sure," Devlin says, swinging his leg over his broom and bracing himself against the ground.

"One, two, _three_!" His father manages to get himself into the air a fraction of a second sooner, but Devlin's smaller body cuts through the air in front of him as he clings low to the broom. He hugs the broom tighter and lets it spiral and for the first time that week, he laughs, filling his lungs even as he empties them.

"Show off!" His father shouts. He throws a grin back at his Dad and begins looping around him. They've both slowed down now. "We need to do this more often," he murmurs, smiling widely.

"How would we do that, when you live at work?" Devlin teases. It was much different from when he'd first arrived – he realized that his father had been _afraid_ to leave him with Uncle Sirius or Aunt Hermione but after his accumulated vacation was up, he'd fretfully had Sirius watch him. Even with his Mum cutting hours and doing all her research-based work at home, Emma and he were with extended family more than they were home.

"…well…maybe we can figure something out…" Devlin starts doing spirals again.

In all reality, his parents are more bothered by the arrangement than him – he rather liked not being cooped up in the same building all the time. Now he would visit Hermione, then Remus, then Sirius and then Molly Weasley, before he'd start the whole thing over again. In between visits were the days his Mum did stay home, or his father managed to stay until they called him (which sometimes, they never did). Devlin was used to being left to his own devices. Sometimes he even likes it more.

But they still didn't treat him the same as Emma. Emma, he found, went to a magical preschool. Devlin didn't think they'd ever let him do that. They were too afraid of losing him. No matter what they said, they didn't trust him entirely.

"Let's see if you can catch a snitch," his father says, pulling a little golden one out of his pocket. Devlin grins devilishly at the little ball and lets it begin zooming around before he goes after it. It is too small to see it by itself, but if he looks just right, he can see the sun's reflection of its surface. He zooms up and then down when it dashes away from him. Finally, moments later, he has it in his hand. His father is cheering and clapping and whistling. Devlin is grinning.

They play 'catch the snitch' a couple more times before his father finally says it is time to go home again.

Remus is no longer in his office and there are no papers laid out neatly on his desk, but Devlin tries not to think on it too hard.

His father sends him through the floo first, as always.

He tumbles out and when he looks up from his hands and knees there are people surrounding him.

"SURPRISE!" they shout, throwing their arms into the air and grinning widely. He stumbles backwards, into his father's oncoming figure.

"Happy Birthday," his father whispers by his ear, righting them both with his sturdy hands.

"But…it's not my birthday today," he whispers softly, looking around shyly at all the new faces mixing with the familiar ones.

"Course it is, Devlin," his father whispers comfortingly. "Lost track of time, huh?"

"No…my birthday is in the Summer," Devlin whispers. "June 12th."

His father bends down and looks him in the eye.

"No, Devlin. December 7th – that's your birthday. I was there. I promise, this is _Devlin's_ birthday."

He looks side long at his father, nervousness clear in his eyes. He'd gotten the clue, though, for he nods resolutely.

"Thanks, then," he affirms, softly.

"We have cake!" Emma shouts, racing over to them and bouncing up and down. "Come see it! Mama and I made it! And you have a pile of presents! Come see! Come see!"

Her little hand grabs onto his and her bright blue eyes, so innocent, shimmer at him happily. He knows in that moment why he had made that deal.

'_I'll do anything for her' _

He'd meant what he'd said, even now.

The cake is a long sheet with snitches around the outside and 'Happy Birthday Devlin' on the inside. It is dressed in white frosting.

"You decorated it?" He asks kindly, because it's clear she's helped with some of the lettering. She beams up at him, her little hands and perfect smile warming him from the tips of his toes to the ends of his hairs.

"It's chocolate!" She yells in excitement. "But we ordered something too!" And she drags him further along the table. Their mum and dad are watching them from the kitchen doorway. He can hear the crowd talking in the living room.

And now he is standing in front of a large platter of cheese pastries and he stops breathing for a moment and looks over at his father. He doesn't think his father _knows_ their significance, but to him it is like someone saying 'doesn't it feel good to be free?'

Yet Devlin knows he isn't really _free_ because if he were, he could do whatever he wanted. He could go back to his Grandfather. He could come see his mum and dad. He could leave them all. No, he's still a child and children are never completely free.

She drags him next back into the living room, to see the pile of presents that towers over his head, set atop a table.

It is then that he notices _her_, standing quietly by her mother and father, smiling softly when she notices his regard.

"I have to go talk to some people," he whispers to Emma gently, and she nods, twirling around in her pretty green dress.

"Hello," he says politely to Maria. She gives him a smile. He's never seen her smile so comfortably.

"Hi, Devlin," she says shyly. Her eyes are as brilliant a blue as he remembers and now they're sparkling, not with tears, but with happiness. His heart pounds against his ribcages and for a moment he lets himself believe all that happiness is because of _him_.

"You look nice," he says, remembering his manners.

"You look like you just went flying and landed in the dirt!" She waggles a finger at him. "It's some way to show up to a surprise party."

He'd never realized she had a sense of humor and he finds himself smiling at the discovery.

"Yeah, well, they kinda didn't tell me to dress up. And I didn't land in the dirt…I purposefully aimed to take a tumble."

"Why?"

"To hear father shout: Don't do that! Oh Merlin, please don't tell your mother you did that!"

She giggles.

"Have you met Tom?" For a moment he's taken aback, wondering if this had all been a dream that is about to shatter around him, until he follows her pointing finger and finds the boy from the party at the other end of it.

"Yeah, I did."

"We used to be friends, all three of us."

"I don't remember."

"That's okay, come make friends again."

"Yeah…okay." He found he could do anything, with her happiness flowing around him and enveloping him. Even make friends with a boy whose name sent shivers up his spine.

"And there is Freddie, he's Mr. Weasley's son. Come on, I'll introduce you!"

She drags him over to the two boys, who are trading Chocolate Frog cards.

"Freddie, Tom, this is Devlin."

"Well, duh, Maria. We obviously know who the birthday boy is." Devlin feels his courage melting. He isn't very good with children his own age. He hadn't met many inside of the camp.

"Well then you should know to be nice too!" She reprimands. They look up at her, half startled and half relieved.

"Sometimes I wish you hadn't found your guts again," Freddie says, "but then I just wanna kiss ya for it!" And he does – he throws himself at her and then ends up tickling her. She squeals.

"Stop it, stop it. Freddie!" But he isn't stopping. Devlin's eyes alight amber.

"She said _stop!_" He growls, pulling them apart and pushing Freddie up against a wall. The boy pales then seems to find his own spine.

"I was _tickling_ her for Merlin's sake. You phycho or something?"

"He's just being protective…"

"You don't need any protection, Maria," Thomas says softly, looking worried. Devlin releases the boy, feeling his face flush. Obviously he's done one of those wolfish things again. "We'd never hurt you."

"Sorry…I just got worried."

"Who assigned you Maria-protection, huh?" Freddie says, straightening his clothing.

"No one," he says softly.

"Then you've got no right."

"Freddie!"

"What, he doesn't know you. He hasn't got a right. Bet he doesn't even remember us."

"He-"except Devlin knows what she's about to say, and he pulls on her arm hard.

"I'll try harder next time not to step in. I know what it's like for people not to stop. I just over reacted, end of story. Okay Maria?" She nods silently, eyeing him.

"Fine. Let's try again."

"Okay."

"I'm Freddie."

"I'm Devlin, nice to meet you, Freddie." He extends a hand politely.

"No, no, not like _that_. We're at _your_ party, not some grown up thing. You don't have to bow and do all that _stuff_."

"Oh, okay."

"I'm Freddie."

"I'm Devlin."

"I'm Thomas."

"Hi Thomas."

"I'm Maria," she giggled.

"Hi, Maria, I'm Devlin."

"Do you collect Chocolate frog cards?" Freddie asked.

"Yeah, I do. I have tons of them."

"How many?"

"Well…I've been eating one everyday for three years so…more than a thousand."

"Merlin! That is a ton!" Thomas exclaimed.

"Do you have them all here?" This was Freddie, giving his small pile an appraising look.

"Erm…yeah…"

"Can we see them?"

"Sure…I mean, if you're allowed in my room. Let me check." The boys gave him an odd look – allowed in _his_ room? The boy was odd that was sure. Maria gave a sad little smile as he went off to find his mum.

OoOoOoOo

"Mum?"

"Hey sweetie, are you ready to open the presents?"

"Ahh, not yet, if that's okay. I was wondering about something, though?" She nods for him to continue. "There are two boys asking about my chocolate frog cards and…well they're in my room. Could they ah, come see them?"

"Devlin, you can invite anyone into your room."

"I just wanted to be sure."

OoOoOoOoO

"Neat room…" Freddie says, except his expression says otherwise. "My little brother has these sheets…he's five…"

"What's up with the crayons?" Thomas asks, looking at them atop his desk. He's never moved them.

Maria is looking around with a much more observant expression, calculating something. Devlin wishes he knew what she was thinking.

"It's the same…exactly the same…"

The words seem to penetrate Thomas' head and he nods as if some mystery had been solved.

"Exactly the same as what?" Devlin asks, hesitantly.

"As it was when we used to play up here, of course."

"Well good, I thought you _liked_ the baby sheets still, but it's just cause you haven't changed them. You really ought to change them, mate."

Devlin frowned. He was starting to feel a sense of annoyance at the two boys. What did sheets matter? Why did it matter that there were crayons in his desk?

"Hello, Thomas, Freddie, Maria," his mother is at the door, smiling. Emma is with her, looking elated but a little uncomfortable, her eye's darting to Freddie and Thomas and back to him. She comes over to him quietly. "Emma just wondered where you where."

"I wanted to see them too," she says, pouting a bit.

"You can," he says. He walks over to his backpack, stood up against the side of his desk, and begins laying miscellaneous things out on his desk, searching for the small wooden box that holds the cards.

His mother tells them the cake will be served in a couple minutes and his friends chorused "Yes Mrs. Potter." He takes a moment to look up in bewilderment. Even when he'd been refusing to call her 'mum' he had never thought of her as a Potter. He turns back to his bag.

He lays a pile of books atop the desk, then a couple of small glass globes that shimmer slightly, then a bunch of little rocks, then a large tooth, then finally, the little wooden box. He waves his hands over it and whispers a password and suddenly it expands into a much larger box.

"Whoa," Freddie says, coming over to the box. It is decorated in different woods, each intricately used to silhouette a scene from history.

"That's awesome! Where'd you get that?"

"For my fifth birthday," he says, beginning to open the lid. Freddie's head snaps up.

"You were with _him_, then," he says, his voice soft and fearful.

"Ahuh," he says, sending a meaningful look at Emma, who is too busy tracing the pictures on the box to notice. Freddie doesn't seem to understand.

"Didn't they like torture you and stuff?"

He keeps his eyes on the box, refusing to answer the boy. He doesn't seem to take a hint, though.

"I heard they used the unforgivable on you!" His tone of voice isn't as fearful now. The fear has given way to awe and excitement. Not cruel excitement, but rather the nervous kind; the awe of the unknown.

"They did a lot of things," he says "none of which I am going to talk about."

"But they gave you the box…" Thomas says softly. He immediately looks abashed. Maria gives him a scathing regard.

"Yeah, he did. Now are we gonna open it?"

"Yeah!"

He takes the lid off and exposes the thousand plus cards.

"Now _that's_ some collection!"

"Thank you," Devlin says, nodding at Thomas.

"You eat too much chocolate, Devlin," Emma says and laughs.

"Never!" He smiles sheepishly back at her.

And for a moment Devlin feels like an ordinary boy. He knows it won't last.

oOoOoOoOo

The cake had been delicious, most of the presents had been fun to open, but these people did not know him as well as Grandfather or the Death Eaters, so many of them he knew would sit around unused.

His mother had gotten him a journal, as beautifully made as his last, and smiled kindly at him when he'd glanced over. Emma had gotten him chocolate frogs. His father hadn't gotten him anything – Devlin tried not to feel disappointed.

Freddie had gotten him a huge box of 'stuff from the joke shop', Thomas a broom cleaning kit, and Maria a stuffed dragon that roared loudly whenever someone came near him that he didn't know. Devlin liked the card the most though, because it was a picture of Maria in a pretty blue dress _smiling_ with her hair all tucked away in it's braid and her waving at the camera.

Freddie and Thomas left still discussing the chocolate frog cards he had given them, Maria left with a hug and a kiss on his cheek, and the adults filtered out slowly. Remus ruffled his hair and Sirius gave him a hug. Hermione kissed the top of his head and whispered "Thank you." He wasn't sure what she was thanking him for, though.

And then they were alone again.

"Are you ready for mine now?" His dad asks, and Devlin's eyebrows rise to meet his hair. "You didn't think I'd forgotten to get you a present, did you?"

Devlin chose not to comment.

"Come on, then, it's outside." Frowning, he followed. The backyard looked the same as always, there was the magical play set (magical because the slide was always changing shape and color and rearranging it's placement), the muggle swing and the garden, then his father lifted his wand and murmured a revealing charm. Suddenly there was a miniature Quidditch pitch.

"I said we'd find a way to play more often, didn't I?" He nods numbly, unbelieving. "There are charms around it to hide it from any Muggles and a bubble to stop us from getting _too_ high (per your mother's wishes)." He winks at him and Devlin grins.

"Thanks, Dad," he whispers and hugs the man.

"No problem." And once more, Devlin feels like a normal boy. He wonders if he'll feel it more and more as he gets older. Either way, he knows it's only a moment's reprieve.

OoOooOo

Later that night Devlin finds himself standing in front of his father and mother, who are reading the newspaper together on the sofa.

"I need to talk to you about something." They're eyes turn to him, full of anticipation and worry.

"Sure, we're listening," says his father, trying to reassure him, as always, that they are good parents.

"I've been informed that sheets and crayons _matter…_" His parents share a confused look. "Freddie and Thomas say my room is a _babies_ room…I want to fix that…if it's okay…" Relief floods their faces. His mother even smiles a bit.

"So you want some new sheets and some quills to keep in your room?"

"Yes, please."

"I think we can manage that," there is a relieved smile plastered on her face.

"Come on, I'll tuck you in and you can tell me the things we need to go shopping for." He nods and together they walk up to his room.

**First off, I'm not too thrilled with this chapter. I kinda got writers block smack dab in the middle of it, honestly, so it feels a bit forced to me, but I needed to get it out. I had lots of inspiration for the next several chapters, of course. *rolls eyes* but couldn't hardly force myself to write this one! **

**I am still looking for a beta reader…**

**I'm still really wishing you guys would review. I know you must like the story, otherwise I wouldn't get so many favorites and 'subscriptions'. If you hit any buttons down there, make sure one of them is 'review' please. :)**

**Up next: " "**Probably," he says, but his eyes never move. Far away from the worried Devlin, something _is_ wrong. Very wrong. "


	36. The Scary Men

Something is wrong. The clock reads seven, yet there is no roar of green flames. There is no "I'm home!" There is no stupid smile and a "did ya miss me?" There is no Harry Potter.

Devlin looks over at Sirius, who had been watching him today. Sirius is busy playing tug-of-war with Zee. He turns back to the orange flames and worries his lip. He has a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

When their game ends and Sirius looks up, he finds Devlin's hand lying motionless atop the new Kneazle 'Emity', his eyes staring worriedly into the fire. He looks at the clock and feels a pang of worry himself, but knows if something truly horrible happened, he'd feel the change in the wards. Harry is still alive. Alexandra is still alive. He lets himself breath and moves to comfort the boy.

"Devlin?"

"Mmm?" His eyes are still on the flames.

"He's probably gotten some papers shoved last minute on his desk."

"Probably," he says, but his eyes never move.

Far away from the worried Devlin, something _is_ wrong. Very wrong.

Emma isn't certain _what_ is wrong, but she knows it is something that is outside the brick school building. The teachers have drawn the curtains and gathered the students in the largest classroom. She listens to their panicked whispers. They've tried Apparation and it hadn't worked. She hears them speaking about being trapped.

"We have to get out," one teacher says. They all nod fervently. Emma is quaking in her pretty purple shoes that she'd begged Mum to wear today.

She finds Freddie in the crowd, drawn to him because of his new connection with Devlin.

"What's happening?" She asks him softly, tugging on his robes. For once he doesn't call her a silly name or make to tickle her. He grabs her hand in a grip that almost hurts.

"Death Eaters," Freddie says, "it must be."

Emma quakes some more. He pulls her close.

"The teachers will know what to do," Freddie assures her, but Emma isn't so certain.

'_People do stupid things when they're afraid, Emma.'_ That's what Daddy always said. The teachers look awfully afraid.

"Are those the scary men my Daddy hates so much?" She asks.

"Yeah, them." Freddie says, just as quietly. The whole room is hushed, almost like it's under a spell.

"He says they're awfully mean," she whispers, breathing quickly. Her heart is pounding.

"My Dad says that too," he says and his voice is dead serious. Emma has never heard him so somber in her whole life. She hadn't known he _could_ be. It frightens her, like her world is tipping to one side and she's sliding away from reality.

"Attention, students!" It is the Headmaster of the school. Emma listens carefully. Freddie is still beside her, listening too. His grip never loosens. "Hogsmeade is being attacked. We have no choice but to run. We are going run, TOGETHER, to Hogwarts. Every older student is to grab the hand of a younger one. You are partners. We must all stay close."

"Freddie…" she sobs, fear clinging to her heart and making it hard to breath.

"Shhh, there's no time for crying Emma. We have to pay attention, alright?" She nods. He's right. "Don't be afraid."

She nods again.

The walk through the dead hallways is frightening in and of itself, but the moment the back door opens and the sounds from outside – yells, bangs, crashes, reach their ears, Emma feels true dread.

They're running now, behind all the buildings. They're too big to hide, so they must keep running. Other students are splitting up. Some of her classmates, too tired, are falling to their kness. Freddie goes after them, and tells her to keep running. She nods. They need his help.

She taps Danny Kite on the head when she finds him fallen down, crying. "TAG, you're it," she screams at him, trying to smile. He looks up and she sees that spark of hope alight in his eyes and he chases after her, as if it truly were a game.

"Don't let the Boogie Monster's get you, or they'll turn you into stone!" She screams, and together they dodge a spell that has traveled through one of the skinny alleyways. Danny tags Katie and tells her the same thing. She races with them.

And then suddenly Emma stops.

'_If something bad happens, you stay __**here. **__Don't leave. This is where I'll come looking for you.' _

Except, Emma was leaving. She wasn't anywhere Dad would look for her. He was probably at her school now, looking for her. He must be standing there, ready to rescue her. She turns to the group, moving around her and beyond her still form, and then looks behind her.

She's not sure what to do, but she knows her Daddy is smarter than her teachers.

She runs back to school. There is rubble from fallen buildings now. The alleyways have widened and suddenly main street and the back of the town are not so different. She is climbing over a fallen building, her hands scraped and bleeding now, when suddenly there is a _pop_ and four people appear. She knows one of them. His son, Scorpius, had been sick from school today.

"My Lord, almost all the residents have fled. Those still fighting are fighting a losing battle."

"Do not report on such predictable things, Draco. I hardly care about the death toll. This was not the reason for the attack in the first place," it is an almost handsome man, except for his blood red eyes. Emma crouches low. She has to get back to her school. Daddy is looking for her there.

Scorpius' Daddy lifts a hood over his head and puts it on and suddenly his face is gone and it looks like a skull instead. The other man does the same, but the woman, tall with unkept black hair, stays where she is.

The two hooded beginning moving forward. Inevitably, one of them see's _her_. She tries to dash away, but he grabs her by the hood of her sweatshirt.

"Oh you very foolish little girl," Scorpius' Daddy whispers by her ear. He almost sounds afraid.

"What have you got, Draco?"

"A little girl, My Lord. I guess she didn't want to listen to her teacher. Big mistake that was, girl."

"Let me go!" She screams. "Let me go _now_!"

She tries kicking him, but he just holds her out away from his body.

"Bring her to me," the handsome man says. There is something about the way his hair falls that disturbs Emma. Or maybe it's his lips. Or his eyebrows. Or…she isn't sure what, but there is something disturbingly familiar about him.

The man drops her infront of the handsome man and she stares defiantly up at him.

He looks at her.

Suddenly she can't blink.

She can't think.

She can't move.

She is thinking of things she knows she shouldn't be. She should be paying attention to her surrounding's, but her mind is not under her control.

_She's thinking about weeks ago, when Devlin had been sick and started shaking terribly in the bathroom. She's thinking about the first time she'd seen him shaking like that when mum and dad had brought him home. _

_She's thinking about him in the garden yesterday, showing her how he can turn a piece of grass into a snake without uttering a word. _

_She's thinking about her Mum saying "You were perfect, I told him, because you had the worst of the worst and the best of the best and that made you perfect. What more opposites could you find than Tom and Harry? Putting them together must equal perfection."_

_She starts to remember Devlin's party and him saying "I have to talk to some people," but that was private. Devlin liked that girl. _

"_No,"_ she whispers, seething. "No, no, no_, __**NO!" **_Her eyes blink and suddenly she can see _him_ and the woman standing beside him.

"Why, aren't you a talented little girl; why didn't you listen to your teacher's, Emma?"

She goes still. He knows her name.

"Because they were afraid and being afraid was making them do something stupid." Of course he knew her name. Devlin had called her Emma in one of those memories he'd made her remember.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, it is."

"Where are you supposed to be, Emma?" She looks up at him, her lips tight together. She's not stupid enough to tell him!

"I won't tell you," she says.

He actually laughs.

"What a smart little girl. Isn't she smart, Bella?" He asks the lady to his side.

"Yes, my Lord."

"You're a good girl not to tell me. Your Daddy taught you that one, didn't he?"

"No." She says, being honest. "My Mum did."

"Ah, of course. You know, you would be a wonderful way to lure Potter out…but alas, it cannot be." He frowns. "Well, if you won't tell me where you're _supposed_ to be…"

He reaches forward and before she can move, he has her wrist in his hand. He draws her against his body, even as she fights him. It feels like her body is being tugged through something very small. _POP_, they're somewhere else. It is the edge of town. He drags her, screaming and struggling, to the tree line. He grabs both her wrists and spells her silent.

"Stop that," he says firmly. "You shouldn't fight what you cannot win."

She breathes. She tries to imagine Devlin. How calm he was. How brave. She needed to be like him.

"That's a good girl," he says, softer. "Now, are you listening?"

She nods.

"You look very much like your mother," he says and when she looks up his eyes are no longer red, they are green. So green. Just like her Daddy's, only darker. "Except that," he says, pointing at her lips "that is all your father. So stubborn, aren't you?"

"Yes," she whispers, because it a comment she often responds too, in normal situations. Answering it makes everything else seem the tiniest bit more normal.

He laughs.

"You stay here and I'll make sure your father finds you. Do you understand?" She nods quickly. He releases her wrists. "And Emma?"

"Yes?"

"Please tell Devlin that I miss him and am not mad." She blinks, but before she can ask, he is gone.

What feels like hours later, she hears her Daddy calling her name and rushes to him. She doesn't tell him about the scary men – she doesn't want to see the hate in his eyes.

**OoOoOoO**

Devlin knows something has gone terribly wrong the minute his father steps through the floo. He doesn't need to see Emma's dust covered dress or her bandaged hands. He only needs to take a seconds glance at his father's face.

"What's wrong?" Devlin asks, moving towards them.

"There were men in Hogsmeade…" Emma whispers. "Scary men. They used their wands to hurt people…"

He looks questioningly at his father.

"We didn't think he'd get past the wards we've been working on for months, but he did. The teachers at Emma's school panicked and when they couldn't use Apparition, they gathered everyone and tried to have them run out of the village."

His father's face fills with anger. Even Devlin knows the strategy had been a stupid one. It would have been better to wait for Auror's. They would have made the school a top priority.

"I got lost…" Emma admits, looking at her shoes.

"But you're okay?"

"Ahuh…I ran really fast and then I hid…"

OoOoOoOo

"Devlin?" His eyes snap open to find Emma next to his bed. "I had to tell you something," she whispers, clearly anxious.

"Okay," he mumbles, sitting up. Mum has neatly braided her hair and washed all the dust and dirt off her face, but somehow Devlin can still see the disheveled girl that had landed in the living room mere hours ago. "What about?"

"I donno if I should tell Mummy and Daddy," she says quietly. He scoots over so she can climb into his bed.

"Tell them what, Emma?"

"One of the scary men that Daddy hates so much, he helped me."

"Why would that be bad to tell them?"

"Daddy doesn't like them."

"How did he help you?"

Honestly, unless given a direct order, a Death Eater wouldn't have wanted to harm Emma – she was clearly a wizarding child and they wouldn't have known if she was mudblood or pureblood.

"I didn't know where to go," she says, beginning to cry, "Daddy told me to 'stay at school' if something bad happened, but my teacher told everyone to leave."

Her blue eyes are shimmering with tears. Devlin has never comforted anyone, at least not that he can remember, and for one brief moment, he wonder's what the hell he is supposed to do, then it all makes sense. He tells her to lie down and tucks her in beside him and puts an arm around her neck, holding her close to him, and _then_ he asks what happened next.

"I ran, like Miss Raven told us too, but then I remembered what Daddy said and I started to run back to school. Because Daddy would think I was there and Daddy is an Auror…"

"That sounds like the smart logical thing, except now you were running alone…"

"Yeah, all alone. And there were big booms and bangs and dust was everywhere. I could see my footprints in the street…"

"Were there people fighting?"

"That too. But no Auror's yet. So I kept running. Then there was a 'crack' like when someone appears, you know?" He nods. Someone had apparated. "And then four scary men appeared right in front of me. I was climbing stones and I tried to be really small so they wouldn't see me."

"Then what happened?" He whispers.

"Then Scorpius' Daddy, he saw me. He said I was a foolish girl and then the other man, with red eyes, he said 'what have you got, Draco?"

Devlin holds his breath, half uncertain if he wants her to continue.

"And Scorpius' Daddy told him he had a me and he put me in front of the man with red eyes. He looked at me and then I felt all funny."

"Funny how?"

"I started thinking about Mummy and Daddy and _you_ and all of a sudden I stopped thinking about them and he was _right here_," she held a hand out a foot away from her face. "He looked at me…he was smiling. I told him I was running. He asked me where too."

"Did you tell him?"

"NO! I'm not stupid!" She says, staring at him defiantly.

"I didn't say you where." But inside he is relaxing that she hadn't.

"I said 'I can't say'. He didn't get mad at all, though Devlin. He told me I was a good girl for not saying."

"Did you tell him your last name?"

"No…I didn't tell him Emma, and he already knew anyways."

"How do you know?"

"'Cause he said: 'wouldn't you work wonderfully to lure Potter out.' Then he paused and got all quiet like and said. 'But alas it cannot be.' And he grabbed my arm and together we went _pop_ and were gone and then we were at the edge of town. There were no more scary men. He let go and he said…" she trails off, turning her head to the side and upward so that she can look at him.

"Said what, Emma?"

"He said: 'Stay here and I'll make sure your Daddy finds you. Also, please tell Devlin that I miss him and I'm not mad' and _pop_ he wasn't there anymore. I guess he was a friend of yours, where they kept you?"

"Emma, can you keep a secret?"

"Ahuh."

"This isn't a silly sort of secret. This is a _real_ secret." She nods slowly.

"You met Grandfather."

"The man you think is our Grandfather?" She asked, as if someone had already coached her through the logic that Devlin must only be imagining the blood connection.

"I don't _think_ he is, I _know_ he is. Mum told me herself, when I was little. Then he kept me away from Mum and Dad and I think Mum decided not to tell you."

"What does lure mean, Devlin?"

"To trick someone into coming out or to a specific spot."

"So he wanted to use me to trick Daddy into coming somewhere?"

"Yeah."

"And then he would have hurt Daddy, right?"

"He would have tried."

"But he didn't use me to lure Daddy."

"No, he didn't."

"How come?"

"Because he had made a deal."

"A deal with who?"

"A deal with me. I made him promise never to hurt you."

She looks up at him and then flips her entire body and throws her arms around him, clinging to him.

They fall asleep this way.

**Hope you liked this chapter. I really must go back and work on the other chapter. I kinda had a divergence of paths and thought of going one way, but then realized I still had to lay some ground work, so some stuff I **_**should**_** have followed up on, didn't get done. Like the Kneazle kitten. She's mentioned here and her 'delivery' should have been brought up before. I'll try to rewrite and write that in. Anyways, we're moving forward. Getting some action and extra angst, right? **

**And no, this isn't going to be a 'Voldemort isn't a bad guy' fanfic. He most certainly **_**IS**_** a bad guy and a monster, but he's also very narcissistic and Devlin is simply an experiment that he has grown attached too. Obviously he can feel attachment, because in the books Dumbledore thinks he cares deeply for Nagini. **

**P.S. because I am totally awesome, I have the next two chapters all written! Woot! **

**Upcoming:** "I must admit; I am startled that they have let you out of their sights at all."

**Please review! I posted this one before any reviews because I felt like the last chapter hardly deserved any reviews. Eeep…I really need to rewrite it! But, this is a pretty good chapter, right? What did you think of Emma? **


	37. Old Acquaintance'

"I can't find Emma," a voice whispers outside his door. His eyes open. He breathes in and the smell of Emma, curled up against him, makes his heart stop panicking.

"Did you check downstairs?"

"Of course!"

"I'll ask Devlin," says his father, his voice calm and collected. All a lie. Devlin can _hear_ the falseness.

There is a knock. Emma stirs and whimpers and that's all Devlin's magic needs. He feels it at his fingertips and he untangles his hand from under the little body and casts a wandless silencing charm around her. Then he gets up carefully and opens the door.

"We're looking for Emma," his father says.

"She's here," he says softly, even though he knows he could shout.

"Oh good," he whispers, sighing in relief. "Why is she in there?"

"She had a nightmare," he says matter-of-factly.

"Oh," Devlin pretends not to see the confusion in his father's eyes. "Did she try coming in our room?"

"I don't know."

"Is she alright?"

"She's sleeping," he says.

"Alright, well let me tell Alex we found her." He wanders off.

Devlin turns around and peers at Emma, still curled up, her fist up by her face. Suddenly he remembers how she used to walk around with her thumb in her mouth and he wonders if she still does it subconsciously in her sleep. Her red hair is covering his pillow like a halo. He wanders over to her and cancels the silencing charm.

"Emma, you should wake up," he says awkwardly. Last night it had all made sense. He'd just known what to do, but in the brightness of the morning, he isn't sure how to treat her.

He wants to thank his Grandfather. He wants Emma to tell their father so that he can say: "he's not a monster". He wants Emma to keep it all a secret. He wants it to be their secret. He wants to know what to want.

_I need to think about it all._ Yes, that was the answer: some time to think about everything.

"Emma?"

"Hmm?"

"Wake up. We have to talk before Mum gets here." She rubs at her face. It is such an immature childish thing to do. In that moment, Devlin wants nothing more than to protect her. He wishes he could take yesterday away from her forever.

"Okay." She sits up slowly and looks at him. Her hair is everywhere. It's clear whom _she_ inherited her hair from!

There are footsteps on the stairs. Devlin's heart beats faster.

"Don't tell Mum and Dad until I think about everything, alright?"

"About the red-eyed man?"

"Yeah, about him."

"Alright Devlin," she says, yawning.

Just then the door opens and Alexandra peeks in.

"Emma!" She says softly, smiling. "I was looking for you!"

"Sorry, mama," Emma yawns, smiling back. "I wanted to talk to Devlin last night."

"About what?" She sits down on the bed. Devlin would rather they both left _his_ room. She hadn't even asked if she could come in. _'Grandfather would never _ask_ to come in…'_

"I donno. Just talk to him."

She smiles and nods. Devlin breathes a tiny sigh. He had thought that she would try to get Emma to admit to the exact thing.

"How about some breakfast?" She asks, standing up.

"Yeah!" Emma cries, jumping out of bed. "I want pancakes!"

When they get downstairs, Harry has already gone to work. Devlin realizes his mum must have called off. He frowns a bit, if she were this worried after Emma _hid_ from Death Eaters, how would she react to the truth? Maybe it _was_ better to keep it a secret.

OoOoOo

Even though Devlin _loves_ history, sometimes even _he _can't bare to listen to it for more than an hour. Like right now, he's begged Hermione to be able to sit on the bench outside her classroom and write in his new journal, rather than listen to her lecture for another minute. He'd said it fairly politely, but she'd still given him a peeved look before sending him off 'just to sit on the bench'.

"Mr. Potter!"

He turns the page in his journal, dips his quill, and continues writing.

"Mr. Potter."

He's writing about a particular potion he's been thinking about. He wants to invent a potion that would be more potent than a calming draught but not as potent as a dreamless sleep. Emma is still having terrible nightmares. Children aren't supposed to consume dreamless sleep (something Devlin_ hadn't_ been aware of until recently).

"Mr. Potter."

Devlin looks up, finding himself face to face with none other than Mr. Malfoy.

"Hello," he says quietly, reigning in his initial panic.

"I've been calling your name," he says, bending close and snarling.

"I didn't hear you."

"I said "Mr. Potter" three times, have you gone deaf?"

"No one calls me Mr. Potter," he says and he lets a growl sneak into his voice.

"It is more discrete than 'Dubhán', now isn't it?"

"I suppose, but that doesn't make it anymore my name."

Malfoy gives him an appraising glance.

"I must admit, I am startled that they have let you out of their sights at all."

"Hermione is in there," he points across the hall.

"But not _watching_ you."

"No, not watching me."

"How magnificently wonderful." Inside Devlin is panicking. Does he fight? If he fights, Grandfather will _know_ he doesn't want to go back. Does he really not want to go back?

"They'll know it was you," Devlin says softly, hoping to make the man see it is a stupid idea.

"They knew it was me the first time. Besides, your absence has made your Grandfather less than…happy."

Which really meant Malfoy was assigned to retrieving him and was failing and his Grandfather was taking his frustrations out in the form of Crucio.

"I see…"

"Obviously you do not, or you would be standing up!"

There is a wand tucked inside Malfoy's sleeve and he makes sure to lift his arm so that he can see it, ready to aim at him.

He stands up. It is better than being stupefied and put under a concealment charm. Besides, he has his own wand, but he can't use it if he's frozen.

"This way," Malfoy whispers, panic in his voice.

They continue walking (because running, Devlin knows, would attract attention), until they have reached the upper levels of Hogwarts. They're close to the Great Hall, Devlin knows.

"Draco! I wasn't aware you had an appointment at the school…" Devlin spins around to find Severus Snape coming towards them, his cloak whirling around him as he walks. "As for you, Devlin, Professor Granger is _very_ upset to find that you have left the bench at which she had instructed you to remain."

"Sorry, sir," he says softly, trying to look perfectly neutral.

"I was leading young Mr. Potter to the headmaster's office. I told him that I couldn't imagine Mr. Potter wanting him to be wandering the halls alone."

"No, of course not. Devlin, come_ here_." Severus' face is perfectly blank. Malfoy's hand grasps hold of him.

"Surely I can walk to the boy to the Headmaster, Severus."

"I'm afraid I can't allow that, Mr. Malfoy."

"I see…"

"Devlin, come here."

But Malfoy's hand is on his shoulder.

"Really Severus, I'm not sure Harry would want the boy alone with you. You two don't get along very well."

Severus' eyes are blank. His mouth twists into a sneer.

"Do you really think Potter would react well to the news that you were wandering around alone with his son? Hand him over now."

"I can't do that."

"Shall we make a show of it, then?"

"I simply don't feel safe leaving a young child with you, Severus."

"That's interesting. When your father was away and your mother couldn't deal with you for one more minute and you had already tortured the house elf's enough, who watched you? Oh, yes, me, your godfather."

"You loath the boys father."

"Devlin, come here _now_."

He begins to move. The fingers on his shoulder dig into him.

"He will be so disappointed," Malfoy whispers. "Don't you think?"

For one moment, Devlin hesitates, and then he straightens himself.

"I don't like you. I remember what you did to me when I was little. If you don't let go I'll tell him what you did to me. Tell him I don't want to go with _you. _If he asks why, _you_ can tell him."

Immediately he feels the fingers release him and Malfoy shove him away.

"You're an ungrateful brat just like your father."

Devlin raises his eyes and regards the blonde man for a long moment.

"Grandfather would be _so_ disappointed in me if I hid anything from him, including that comment."

He strode over to Severus, who grabbed him protectively. Together they watched Malfoy walk the other way and they only turned around when the other man had rounded the corner.

"You are a foolish boy," Severus says, his voice tense, as if he had been holding onto the words.

"Foolish in a brilliant way," he says, grinning at the older man. For one brief second Devlin almost thinks he sees a smile spread across Snape's face, but then it is gone. Perhaps he had merely imagined its presence.

He turns on his heel, Devlin still held against him, and his cloak billows out around them both. Devlin finds it kind of comforting. The fabric is softer than it looks. It smells like potion ingredients.

"Why did you leave the bench?"

"Because he had a wand and I knew he'd get to his before I got to mine."

"I did not know you possessed a wand."

"I do. I've had it for a long time. Dumbledore knows."

"I see." There is a long pause.

"I don't really need it anyways," Devlin says quietly. Something about the man, perhaps because he isn't so desperate for Devlin's approval and so Devlin feels a flutter of desperation for _his_ approval, seems to make him open up more to this man than Harry or Alexandra.

"Don't get a big head," Severus says. "A wizard should _always _have their wand."

"I know. _He_ used to make a big point about it too…"

Snape looks sidelong down at him, his expression softening for a moment before lapsing back into its default sneer.

"How would he make those points?" Devlin looks up quickly, into the Potion Master's eyes. They are calm and understanding.

"Not like you think," he says, a bit defensively. "He just used to tell me, that's all."

"Tell you what?"

"Tell me that's why…"

There is a long pause between them and the only noise becomes the distant sound of student's feet and their own footsteps, leading them closer and closer to Hermione's classroom.

"He used to tell me that's how my other Grandfather died. He said he put it down. Said they were _both_ foolish, because neither one of them had a wand."

Snape's hand tightens around his own until it is almost painful.

"You shouldn't believe anything he said to you about your family, Devlin." Harry would have said he shouldn't believe _anything_ but Severus wasn't that narrow minded or desperate to take the past away from him.

"Yes, sir."

"James Potter was _foolish_ but he was a brave man and a brilliant wizard. Your grandmother was _anything_ but foolish."

Hermione is standing outside her classroom, questioning a pair of students.

"Hermione!" Devlin shouts, racing towards her. He catches her around the middle and buries his head into her belly.

"Devlin, oh Merlin, I was worried."

"I'm okay," he says, sounding confident.

"What happened Severus?"

"Devlin simply ran into an old acquaintance who thought perhaps he was lost."

"Thank you, Severus."

"He's only nine, Professor Granger. One would think you would know not leave a child that age to his own devices. He's just as his father was; a magnet for trouble." He turns to leave, only to come face to face with Harry himself.

"Hi, Severus."

"Hello, Mr. Potter."

"I'd say thanks, but I know you won't really appreciate it, so just expect loads more venom this month."

Snape doesn't even both to acknowledge the comment. He spins on his heel and makes his way down the hallway. A few steps away he pauses and says over his shoulder: "Be more brilliant and less foolish next time, Devlin."

"Yes sir!" Devlin called over to him, smiling.

After much apologizing from Hermione and questioning from his father, Devlin finally got to go home.

"Don't tell Mum," Devlin whispers, for a the brief moment they are alone in the living room.

"Why not?"

"You'll get her worried."

"She already knows you went missing, Devlin. Hermione told us _both_ the instant she saw your journal alone on the bench."

"Oh…"

His father nods and finishes brushing his clothes off.

"We're home!" He shouts.

A small pair of shoes come racing around the corner. Emma rushes towards them and makes a dive for Devlin. He only just manages to stay on his feet.

"I was so worried the scary man had taken you!" She says, burying her face in his shirt. Zee walks into the room, trying to look regal, even with the kitten following him, jumping in the air and batting at his tail.

"Even Emity was worried," Emma says softly.

"Yeah, she sure looks worried," he says sarcastically. The moment he speaks, the kittens eyes turn to him, bright and alert and she races over to him. He waits for the inevitable, closing his eyes as she climbs up his clothes.

She purrs and her magic vibrates through the air and awakes his wolf. His wolf seems to understand her, just like Padfoot seems capable of understanding her.

'_Mmmmine," _she purrs, rubbing her head against his cheek.

"I don't like that, you know," he says to her. She draws back and looks at him, then repeats the motion.

"_Mmmmine._"

He sighs.

"See, she _was_ worried about you!"

"I think she just missed her climbing post," he said. Although, deep down, he knew Emma was right. The cat had claimed him. Why, he wasn't sure.

Emma giggles and Zee barks and Devlin says, not for the first time, 'I didn't pick her, Zee.' The dog barks again, as if to say 'but you haven't gotten _rid_ of her, either!'

**Humph, 30 something of you viewed the last chapter, but no reviews. Whatever. I'm still seeking a beta reader. Thinking of transferring the story to elsewhere. **

**Anyway, what did you think? **

**Upcoming: **'_It's a bit creepy, isn't it? I mean, 'Dear Mr. Potter'….' _

'_Creepy does not even begin to sum this up, Hermione.' _

'_I Suppose so…'_

**The Potter's get a letter. From who? Well, just take a guess.**


	38. To Choose Or Not to Choose

Devlin expects something to happen after the Malfoy incident, and things do happen, just not from the side of the 'family' Devlin had expected. His father makes everyone watching him promise not to let him out of their sights, which was bad enough, but because he said it _in front_ of said people, it made it all the worse.

"I'm not a baby," he tells Mrs. Weasley, after his father has left for work. "No matter what he thinks."

"Oh, he doesn't think you're a baby, sweetheart," she says, brushing the hair out of his eyes. He shakes it back into them, feeling sullen.

"It's only babies you don't let out of your sight," Devlin says scathingly.

"Or people we're worried about," Mrs. Weasley offers.

"I can take care of myself."

"Give your father a break, Devlin, honey. He lost you when you were four. Sometimes he probably looks at you and thinks of you as that little boy. Alright?" Somehow the false justification made it just a little more bearable and he nodded slowly.

"Alright."

"Good! Freddie and Daniel are coming over today. That should give you something to do."

Devlin nods, just a bit happier.

Still, he can't shake the feeling that his Grandfather must have _some kind _of reaction to him refusing to go with Malfoy. Perhaps Malfoy truly had been afraid to tell his Grandfather about how he had treated him, all those years ago, before Voldemort had even set eyes upon him. But really, wouldn't Grandfather have already known? Why would he have cared, it had been before his command that he not be harmed…

**OlOlOlOlOlOlOlO**

The fire in the living room flares to life and the Potter's, eating dinner in the kitchen, all startle when a voice calls out: "Harry, Alexandra!"

Alexandra reacts first, jumping out of the chair and running to the fireplace. Devlin tips his head. He already knows it is Hermione. They are whispering now.

'_I got a letter for Harry. It was in a larger envelope addressed to me…' _

'_From who?'_

'_I had to sneak it out before Dumbledore noticed…he certainly would have wanted to look at it first, but after I read the first letter, to me, I figured it was something…erm…personal?' _

'_From who, Hermione?' _

'_From _Him_,_' her voice is soft and worried, with an edge of fear_. 'From Voldemort.' _

'_Have you checked its safety?' _

'_Of course. Just the regular privacy charms…not even a drop of dark magic …' _

'_So he made sure it would pass Hogwart's inspection.' _

'_It seems so…do you want me to pass it to you?' _

'_No, let me get Harry.' _

Devlin watches as his mother steps lightly into the room and beckons his father silently with a finger. She smiles at Emma and him, and then turns the corner into the hallway. Here, at least, she knows she can be heard and her words remain cryptic.

"Hermione received a letter addressed to you, today."

"From who?"

"From _him_."

"Oh…"

"Don't tell me you actually did it Harry…"

There is silence. His mum sighs loudly.

"Just go figure it out."

Alexandra comes back into the kitchen, smiles, and sits herself back down.

"So, we were talking about how you went flying with Freddie, right?"

"Yeah," he mumbles, but his ears are half-trained on the living room. He knows he can't fall completely silent or she'll notice, so he reluctantly resigns himself to only hearing parts of Hermione and Harry's conversation. "He didn't think I knew how to fly."

"And yet he gave you a broom before asking Molly…" his mother manages not to look _too_ peeved.

"We didn't go very high," Devlin defends, taking a big bite of food so he'll be expected to be quiet for a little.

'_It's a bit creepy, isn't it? I mean, 'Dear Mr. Potter'….' _

'_Creepy does not even begin to sum this up, Hermione.' _

'_I suppose so…'_

"So, did you prove him otherwise?"

"Well of course! I flew straight up into the air!" He tries not to dwell on her horrified face.

Harry chose that moment to return to the table, all smiles and nonchalance.

"Devlin was telling me about flying at Molly's with Freddie."

"What's there to say except he's awesome? I saw the last bit when I picked him up." His father grins at him, but Devlin can see the forced edge to the expression.

"You're right. We should talk about something else."

"Like what, Devlin?" His mum asks, still smiling. Emma's eyes are narrowed, as if she can _sense_ the impending explosion.

"How about the letter you received from Voldemort?"

Harry and Alex share a fervent glance.

"How about something else?"

"No, I want to talk about that."

"Well, we're not going too," his father says, the words coming through clenched teeth.

"Yes we are!"

"Devlin, we're _not_ talking about it." There is a hardness to his father's voice that he's never heard before.

"You're right, _we're_ not, but _I am_, regardless of your participation in the discussion."

"This is not the time or place, Devlin!" There it is, the elusive anger and annoyance. The very thing Devlin had wondered if his father could ever direct at him. The edge of the envelope, within reach. Just a few more steps. If he was less fearful, he'd turn back now, but fear has always made him braver.

"Why? Is Voldemort not a proper dinner conversation? Is this something that makes you uncomfortable? Is this something that doesn't belong in your perfect little family?"

"Devlin…" It's his mother, calm and soothing, but not enough for the froth his fear has churned.

He stands up abruptly, shoving himself away from the table.

"What are you doing, Devlin?" His father asks, very slowly and very sharply.

"I'm excusing myself. I can't be part of your perfect family right now. Me being here must be a bad reminder. After all, you must thinkof _him_ every time you look at me."

"Devlin, sit _down_."

"No, thank you."

"Devlin, sit down _now_."

"Are you going to make me? Go ahead – you can probably cast Imperius just like him."

"Devlin, I would never. Now _please_ sit down."

"Make me."

For a moment his father almost looks like he will. Then he slouches a bit.

"No," he says softly but firmly.

"Why not?" Devlin yells, wanting, for what reason he hasn't the slightest, for Harry to act more like _him_. He wants the familiarity. His two separate worlds have collided and he doesn't know what to do. He had felt, for the last couple hours, as if one simply cancelled out the other – as if Harry his father couldn't exist as long as Voldemort his Grandfather did and that Voldemort as his Grandfather couldn't exist as long as Harry his father did.

"I'm not him," he says simply. "Now please, sit down."

"Tell me. Tell me what he said."

"This is _not_ the place." Devlin can take a hint. Grandfather would have said _'I've already said I will not discuss this here, you are more intelligent than to ask twice the same way.' _

"May we please discuss it elsewhere, sir?" Potter nods.

"After dinner."

So Devlin sits back down. He puts his napkin back on his lap. He cuts another piece of chicken off and he listens to his mother try to change the subject. He doesn't talk for the rest of the meal, waiting impatiently for everyone to be finished.

**OoOoOoO**

"I want to know what he said about me," he demands, once they are behind closed doors in his father's study.

Instead of answering father merely holds out a piece of paper, mumbling something about him likely not believing _his_ word, anyway.

'_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_So you have your son back in your home. It must have come as quite the shock when, shortly after having your arms around him again, he fell limp to the ground and began shaking. Do not pull out your wand; you need not re-ward your home. This is easily predictable, that is all. _

_Have your healers already told you the devastating news; that there exists no cure for your son? Have they already said 'I do not know how he has survived so long?'. I will tell you how he survived. I kept him alive. I had a potion brewed that keeps it all at bay. _

_You should have contacted me. Of course, being unable to plot your location, I have sent this to Professor Granger. I hope you appreciate the protections I put on the letter so that only you could open it. _

_There is a potion's recipe included, with only one minor catch – just as this envelope could only be opened by you, that envelope can only be opened by your son. _

_Lord Voldemort _

"Where is the letter for me?" His hands are shaking with anticipation, both from fear and happiness. Grandfather had written him!

"It has spells on it," his father says. "It would be best not to open it."

"The same spells that were on this one?"

"Yes and no. The same spells that were on this one are also on your letter, but there are additional spells, also."

"Harmful ones?"

"No…"

"Then what ones?"

"I don't know, they were concealed."

"Then how do you know that they aren't harmful ones?"

"You cannot hide Dark spells this well, therefore they must be fairly light."

"Which makes you not trust them."

"Correct."

"He won't hurt me, Sir."

"Your back begs to differ. Your seizures beg to differ. Your dishonesty to him about Maria simply screams: I'm afraid of him!"

"I'm not afraid," he whispers, glaring. "He won't hurt me through a letter. Where's the satisfaction in that? Besides, those first two things were from when I was little. Before he liked me at all."

"Voldemort does not like anyone."

"No, Voldemort does not _love_ anyone. He likes plenty of people and plenty of things. And he cares about Nagini."

"He protects her, that is all."

"Because he cares about her."

"That is not what Dumbledore suspects, but you may choose to believe whatever you like."

"I will, thank you."

"But I won't give you the letter."

"So you'll just destroy it, will you?"

"No, I'll keep it safe. When you're older, you can have it. Right now, you don't need to reconnect with him. You need to grow up, without his influence."

"He would say the same about you."

"I imagine he would."

"It's all opinions."

"It probably does seem that way to you right now, Devlin. Please, trust me."

"Yes, _sir,_" he made sure that not only did his voice show his sarcasm, but his face made it plainly clear, as well. Then he lifted himself out of the chair and walked out of the room.

Zee was waiting for him outside of the study and he walked along side him as he went back to the living room, to retrieve his book. The dog looked unusually worried. Perhaps he sensed Devlin's own unease.

"Devlin!" Emma cries happily

"I don't want to talk. I want to be alone."

"Alright." Her voice sounds so hurt and sad. Devlin turns away from her innocence, picks up his book, and walks out of the living room and up the stairs to his bedroom. He locks the door and sits with Zee. His heart is pounding, his breathing is erratic – he's panicking.

His great plan to remain neutral; to have both sides think him loyal, was crumbling around him.

Perhaps he would need to pick after all.

**What do you think? **

**Upcoming: **He wonders briefly if his father's wards would respond like Voldemort's had to his Numbing Spell. Could he cut a hole through the wards?


	39. Escape?

Kay, so here's the deal: I get that I shouldn't beg for reviews, but either there is something wrong with my story, because barely anyone seems to like it (at least, if I take reviews to mean anything).

If I don't need reviews, then I don't need to post. Case in point, I have 45 pages written out – I've been writing every day since my last update. That's a lot of chapters, and some pretty cool twists happen in those 45 pages, but I don't _need_ to post them. I've been pretty happy just writing.

Here is my last update for a while, until I decide I just feel like posting, even though there really is no difference between writing in word and publishing here (hint, hint, you 40ish people that view my chapters every time).

**OoOoO**

The air outside was cold. The wind was blowing harshly. His hair lay atop his head, windblown and looking more like his father's than it ever had before. Devlin lifted his bright green eyes. He could see it, shimmering ever so slightly, in front of him. He could feel it, like a powerful force trying to push him backwards, away from itself. He reached up a hand and held it right in front of the wards, half a centimeter from actually touching the boundary.

What would happen, if his hand did touch?

He turned around to look back at the house. It is quiet looking. There are no lights on, but Devlin knows that is an illusion. His mother and father are still up. He'd heard them talking about him when he'd gone to knock on their door.

He'd had a nightmare. Tomorrow was the full moon and sometimes his wolf's alertness brought back all those memories from his first few weeks at Voldemort's hand. After all, it had been his wolf that had experienced the brunt of them, shielding him from the worst.

He wonders briefly if his father's wards would respond like Voldemort's had to his Numbing Spell. Could he cut a hole through the wards?

He looks back at the wards and lifts his questioning green eyes again.

He lifts his hand. He stretches out a single finger.

"Don't do it, Devlin."

Devlin spins around. His finger is a hair away from touching the magical force. His father is standing behind him, his hair blowing in the wind, his hands stuck in his pockets in a casual manner. He is wearing an undershirt and a pair of jeans. His feet are bare. It looked as if he'd gotten dressed in a rush.

"Why not?"


	40. Falling Down

A/N: Bright-down, this chapter is here because of you.

Hopefully you guys (the some 40 of you that view it every time and the 25 something that subscribe to it) will review so I can post the next bit.

I've started posting over at HarryPotterFanfiction too, because I felt like I needed a restart, so the story is progressing and getting a rewriting as it publishes over there, but I have so much written (55 pages since last update + scenes years from now) that I couldn't help but post the next part.

Soonish (60ish pages from now), I'm thinking of skipping a couple years. I've resolved the issues I want to resolve, etc., and feel it might start to be a little repetitive and not so exciting, but I have so much exciting material for Devlin's first year at Hogwarts!

This is still a draft in my book and will be until the rewriting catches up to it, but I am pretty comfortable with it.

I'd really appreciate a review.

**ON WITH THE STORY: **

His father heaves a sigh.

"I don't fancy a bunch of Auror's storming the house. They'll make a mess. You're mother will be frantic. Emma will wake up and never get back to sleep. They'll want to question you and then they and I will get into an argument, which I'll win, because I'm their boss, but it will take us hours to have first. Then I'll have to redo all the wards again, which means I'll be tired all week. And Dumbledore will have to come and visit, and I'll have to refuse lemon drops left and right all evening for a week…"

Devlin stays staring at him, blinking. Not one of those reasons had been about him, really. Nothing about Harry being angry with him. Nothing about how he'll be disappointed. Devlin's hand drops.

"Thanks," his father says, as if he isn't talking to a nine year old, but a fellow adult. "I appreciate it."

Devlin is silent. His father holds out a hand, implying he wants Devlin to come to him, but Devlin remains still.

"Lets go inside. We can have some hot coco."

"No," he says, his words whisked away by the wind.

His father frowns and takes a step towards him.

"Devlin, don't do anything stupid," he warns.

"I'll leave your bloody wards alone, don't worry!" He shouts, letting his arms drop to his sides. "But I'm not going back in _there_."

His father frowns and once more he gets that look of uncertainty, of being in over his head.

"Is something inside bothering you, Devlin?" His father asks, his voice just loud enough for the wind to carry it over to his son.

"_Everything,"_ the child whispers, shivering from more than the chill wind. He frowns at his son's expression, so earnest and pained and angry. "_Everything _bothers me in there."

"Why?" He asks, trying to make his voice more gentle than confused, although it is hard. Everything is bothering him?

"Because every bloody thing is the same!"

He's never heard the child curse before; he is taken aback for a moment.

_Death Eaters are adults. Your son lived with adults that didn't treat him like a child._

He opens his mouth to say something about it nonetheless, but then one of Molly's sayings comes to his mind. 'You have to choose your battles, Harry dear. If I had reprimanded George and Fred for _everything_ they did wrong, I would never have been able to say a nice thing too them."

So he takes a deep breath.

"The same as what?"

"As when they bloody took me, that's what!"

Harry frowned. The fact that it was the same had all to do with the boy. Harry hadn't let Alexandra change _anything_. Once, she'd wanted to paint the living room a pale green but Harry had refused her. In the end he had begged her. '_It wouldn't look the same as the pictures.' _

As long as everything remained the same, he could pretend, when he was alone in a room, that Devlin, still four and a half, was right around the corner. In the first months after the body had been placed at the Ministry, Harry had caught himself pretending, in the middle of the night, that it had all been a bad dream and that Devlin was upstairs, asleep. He would never check on the child, of course, because, he'd tell himself, that would surely wake the boy up for no good reason.

Alexandra and he were different in that way. She wanted things to change to _mark_ the change, while Harry wanted them to stay the same to leave it _unmarked_. In the end, Harry had been less able to cope, so she had given into _his_ coping method.

It had never occurred to him that it would cause Devlin stress.

"Please, Devlin, come with me." He holds out his hand. His shirtsleeve whips around in the wind. The boy is shaking again, crying. It hurts him when the boy cries, but it also makes him happy that he still can. He wondered what Voldemort thought of the boy crying.

"No," he says, his voice tense and hitching at the end.

"Devlin, you have to trust me, please."

He holds his breath. He waits for the words. He waits for the: 'That's the problem, Mr. Potter, I don't.'

But it never comes.

Instead when he opens his eyes, the boy is reaching out for his hand. He grabs onto the boy and leads him slowly inside.

The back door opens up to the kitchen.

Once the door is shut, Harry lifts his wand.

"What shall we change?"

His son is looking at him uncertainly.

"I know Alexandra always wanted to repaint the cabinets. Lets make them wood colored, shall we?"

So the cabinets changed from blue to a dark wood. Devlin's eyes widened.

"The floor…" he said quietly, trying to sound confident.

"What color?"

"Wood…"

So the old fashioned checkers disappear and in their place is a light wood, contrasting with the cabinets.

"How about the living room? We must paint the walls a pale green. Your mother wanted to years ago."

He pulls the boy along with him. They turn the living room walls green, the carpet from a beige to a brown, they completely remove the closet Devlin had hidden in once and replace it with a coat rack instead.

They put new picture frames in the hallway. They change the stairs to wood. Harry fixes the third board that creaks on them as well.

He puts a new nameplate on Devlin's door, and then removes it entirely when Devlin whispers that it is childish. They give him a new knob. In his room, they move the window the Death Eater's had used as entrance. They give him a skylight instead, and a tiny little window over his desk, because Harry says "soon you'll have an owl of your own."

By the end, Devlin is laughing and when Harry spins around to change his bed frame, he finds Alexandra leaning in the doorway. She is smiling and frowning at the same time in the way only she can.

"We're changing things," Harry says, matter of fact. "Devlin thought everything should be a bit _different_ than it always has."

"Oh, indeed. I do hope if you did this downstairs you changed the living room wall color…"

"We did, to pale green." Devlin is smiling, even if it is a bit shadowed.

"Good, I've been asking your father for ages," she says, smiling more fully now.

"How's that for tonight, Devlin?" His father asks and he's smiling too.

"Better," Devlin admits, even though he'd rather he never admitted his weakness to him at all.

OoOoOoOoO

When Harry gets home from work the next day, he is holding a small package. It is wrapped in purple and pink wrapping paper. Devlin knows immediately that it is not for _him_. He also suspects his mother wouldn't appreciate such garish colors. It must be for Emma.

"Hey, Devlin," he winks and then shouts: "Emma, I have something for you!"

Devlin swears the girl can _smell_ wrapping paper and new toys, because she's already bounding down the stairs. The minute her eyes fall on the package, she grins.

"Is it a new dolly?" She asks, excitement making the pitch of her voice go up.

"Nope, it's not. Here open it." She takes it in her hands quickly and begins to rip it open, until suddenly, she looks up with suspicious, narrowed eyes.

"Why am I getting a present?" She asks softly.

Harry shrugs.

"Donno, just wanted to give you one. It's not _that_ odd, is it?"

Still those narrowed eyes, although she's far too innocent for them to hold anything more than curious suspicion.

"Well no…but Devlin's here now…"

"So? He won't be jealous, I promise."

"But…you gave me presents lots because he _wasn't_ here."

For a moment all the color in Harry's face drains and he looks shocked. Devlin merely tips his head a bit, once more surprised by his little sister.

"Well…this isn't a present like that."

"Okay." She looks back down, the seriousness gone, and rips the paper off. Inside is a box and inside of the box is a shrunk flying broom. It is a child's broom. It has pink kick stands. She jumps up and is just about to scream, when Harry puts a finger to his mouth and she quiets.

"I haven't told your Mum," he whispers. Devlin chortles. Of course he hadn't.

"Oh, okay Daddy." She turns away from him, as if suspecting that is what he'll be off to do, and to Devlin. "Tell me all about it, Devy."

He cringes at her nickname for him. It had started just the day before.

"I will if you don't call me that," he says gently. She nods, but somehow he thinks she'll forget within the hour.

OoOoOo

A couple hours later, they're in the air. Only his mother is down below, worrying her lip.

Potter is staying close to Emma, but Devlin flies high above them. Everything is going fine, until he hears Emma down below saying: "This is fun! Look how fast I can go! If I had this those scary men could never have caught me!"

He isn't sure what happens to his body, but he knows it panics. He knows he loses control of the broom. He knows it begins spiraling downwards. He knows he hears someone scream (he thinks it's his mother). He knows someone is zooming towards him, but they're not fast enough. He's too fast. Falling too fast. He shuts his eyes and sets his jaw, readying for the pain.

His magic is tingling, but it's his wolf at the surface now, and his wolf is slower when it comes to magic. He hears his mother shouting, "oh my God". She is screaming. Emma is screaming. His father is shouting, only he's shouting something different.

"Get your magic under control, Devlin. It's blocking us."

His wolf didn't like being cast upon. It was so afraid. Devlin was so afraid right now.

"Do something! Devlin, do something!"

**How do you like that cliffie? What happens to a wizard boy who can't use his magic to cushion a fall, hmm? **

**Upcoming: There is power in those eyes: not a wizard's power, but rather a mental power. For a moment Severus is thrown aback; he is hit by what must make his potion _necessary_. Werewolves, he realizes, must have great mental power to _overtake_ a mind.**


	41. The Wolf Boy

A/N: This story is being rewritten, but I will post the first version before I begin posting the revised version here on . I'd like to share a snippet of the upcoming sequel (not sure if it will be separate or just continue here):

**The moment the hands lay on his shoulders he knows they are a Death Eater's and he knows he cannot fight. It is unlikely he will win and should he fight back and lose, Voldemort will suspect his loyalty has shifted. He glances at Maria, who is looking on in horror at the man Devlin can't see and the wand he can feel against his neck. **

:D I have so much planned for the eleven year old Devlin Potter, off at Hogwarts. Hope you'll stick with me. We've got about 40ish pages before that sequel, I think.

**ON WITH THE STORY**

_It will hurt if we don't do as we're told…_ the wolf whimpers, and lets him take control for one desperate moment. Devlin does something. He slows himself down, so that the ground only skids across his face, rather than turn him into a pancake.

Then he's not in control anymore and it's his wolf, afraid of the people. There are hands on him, and his wolf retches his body back. Something isn't right about his hand, but his wolf ignores him. His wolf is used to pain.

"Devlin, please, open your eyes."

So his wolf does and snarls at them. They'll hurt him. They'll be mad the boy had fallen at all. They'll say he should have done better. He'll protect the boy.

"Whoa…something's wrong Harry. Take Emma and get Remus."

The woman stares at him. Some part of him knows she won't hurt him, but he's too afraid to listen. So they continue to stare. He's too weak to run away from her.

"Alexandra? Devlin?" His eyes snap to the new voice. It is the other wolf. _His_ wolf. His creator. He whimpers, begging for its help. The other wolf frowns, but his steps quicken.

"His eyes…they're not green anymore, Remus. Not even a speck."

The other wolf inches closer to him and he's not sure why _he's_ afraid of him.

"Devlin?"

That's his name, or the boy's name, isn't it?

"Yes?"

The sounds are uncertain and rough. It sounds half like a bark and half like a growl. He's done this before. He pretended to be the boy for weeks after the red-eyed-man nearly made them both mad with pain.

"Your eyes, they're amber. Completely."

It hadn't been a question and he isn't sure what to say to him.

"Do you feel alright?"

"Yes." There, his voice was getting better. Closer to the boy's own voice.

"I think your arm might be broken," the other human-wolf says, very softly.

"I don't feel it." Which is true. But he can't feel much pain beyond what he_ always_ feels. That spell had ruined something. Disrupted it. _Hurt_ them.

"You're probably in shock. Can you, ah, turn your eyes green again?"

"No," he snarls, because what the man is really asking him is to stop protecting the boy.

The human-wolf summons a piece of paper and a quill and writes a note to the lady. She dashes off, clutching it.

"What did you do?" He asks, his voice low and gravely. He doesn't feel the need to hide from this man.

"I just asked her to fetch me something."

"What?"

"Something that might help me understand you."

He narrows his eyes.

Moments later, there is a man racing out from the human dwelling. He knows this man.

"Dubhán? Oh Merlin." The man rushes to his side and runs his hand across his face, through his hair, lifts up his shirt. He's looking for wounds. He seems already to know about the arm, because he ignores it.

"Hello, Geoffrey."

It is then that his pack mate _looks_ at his face. He sucks in a breath, obviously surprised by something he sees there.

"He's acting so _odd,_" the lady is saying, coming near him again.

"This isn't Devlin," Geoffrey says very softly. "This, ah, happened once before. This is Devlin's wolf."

"Can't do it again," he says, clinging to Geoffrey with the hand that will work. "Not like before…"

"No one here will curse Devlin," he says softly.

"Do you swear?"

"Yes, I swear. No Crucio."

The other humans are nodding quickly. The lady is crying.

"The boy says so too…"

But his boy, like him, is far too brave for his own good.

"How about we fix your arm? Doesn't it hurt?"

He turns his eyes upon the lady (his Mum, the boy tells him). The fact that he can tell him things means the wolf doesn't have complete control. It means the boy isn't so afraid.

"I can't feel it."

"How can you not _feel_ that?" It is the man, the father. He looks down at his own arm. There is no bone showing. It is merely twisted at an odd angle. He feels an unpleasant twinge.

"It hurts mostly the same."

"Mostly the same?" It is his creator-wolf, so he answers dutifully, despite the panic in the boys mind. He leans close so that the two humans can't hear him.

"The pain magic…it makes us always hurt."

Just as quietly: "You mean the torture curse, Crucio."

"Yes. He feels more than me."

"More pain?"

"No, more other things."

Geoffrey is staring at him. Remus is tense and his voice edgy.

"Is this normal?" Remus asks Geoffrey, motioning to him. Geoffrey shakes his head.

"No, but as the Dark Lord said 'nothing is normal about the Potter line.' Our werewolf parts _are_ semi separate, or else the Wolfsbane potion wouldn't be required to control ourselves. The potion, itself-"

"Works like a liquid Occlumency," says a deep voice, striding purposefully from the house. He is wearing black robes, billowing around him. "So that the human mind may stay in control of the werewolf, like it does the other days of the month."

"Poppy is caring for a foolish child. Albus sent me instead," he says, after silence meets his ears.

He comes close, but out of arms reach. The wolf can sense his discomfort and disgust, but he is trying to hide it on his face behind cool indifference. He doesn't bother to ask about the arm or the pain.

"I assume this has happened before?"

Geoffrey is nodding.

"Well, has it?" Apparently, he wants to hear it from him. He looks up into the dark man's face.

"Yes."

"What is your goal?" The wolf-child regards him for a moment, his head tipped in clear observation. As if he were a strange object in his environment that needed to be observed before it was approached.

There is power in those eyes: not a wizard's power, but rather a mental power. For a moment Severus is thrown aback; he is hit by what must make his potion _necessary_. Werewolves, he realizes, must have great mental power to _overtake_ a mind. The boy was gifted at Occlumency; perhaps this meant so was his werewolf.

He stopped himself before his mind fell to his curiosity. He would write it all down and ponder it all later.

"To protect his mind."

"The human's mind?"

The wolf-child nods.

"When you have done this before, what has made you stop?"

Severus thinks of the last time he had seen the boy. When he had turned away from Malfoy, hadn't his eyes been a bit amber? But that was hardly different from the first time he had met him, was it? He thinks back to the Headmaster's Office, when the boy had come up to him and spoken about his father's books. His eyes had been mostly green, hadn't they…?

"Stop protecting him, or stop being in control?"

"Both."

"When it became necessary for our safety."

"When was that?"

"When the dark man thought his mind was 'beyond repair'. I had to show him the boy was still there. Still cunning. I did not know how to speak your language."

Obviously, the separation between wolf and boy had been damaged, however remotely, from torture.

"But you learned?"

"The dark man had to think I was the boy, whenever he was hurting the boy."

"With magic?"

"And words, and hands."

"You are not necessary here. We are not upset with the boy. We will not hurt him. We would like to heal him."

"I know that. He knows that."

"Then why are you here still?"

"Because it is almost _my_ time."

The dark-eyed-man looked into the sky. It was true. Even the two other werewolves were looking ragged and exhausted and their eyes were brighter and more feral. Even if it was only mid-afternoon, their wolves knew it was almost their time.

"Fair enough."

The wolf smiles and it makes the boy look like a Slytherin.

OoOooO

The wolf-child looks strange, sitting at the kitchen table. Severus isn't sure if he should pull away from the child's regard, or keep the connection until the wolf-child surrenders.

"Will the boy remember this?" He asks suddenly. Potter and Alex jump at the noise.

"Oh yes," he says softly. "From that I cannot protect him."

"Crucio damages the nerves in the brain that send pain signals, but the boy doesn't experience any of the traditional symptoms."

There it is again, that head-tipping curious-but-cautious regard. The intenseness of it is unsettling.

"I do not experience pain in the same way as the boy."

"So you were not damaged?"

"_He_ was not damaged, that much."

Interesting, so the wolf's full consciousness must shut off the human receptors in the brain. Which might explain the extremely painful headaches recently bitten humans experience for weeks after the initial bite.

"And obviously you did not go mad…"

"Aren't I?" The wolf-child asks, his amber eyes settling intently on his dark ones. "I feel mad. This isn't _normal_ as my pack mate says."

That was true. Was it possible the damage between the two minds had caused the boy to be more wolfish and the wolf to be more boyish?

"Do you feel the need to bite us?"

"With what?" The boy says, showing his teeth. "These things?" He laughs. "They couldn't do a thing to you."

"But do you feel the need?"

"No."

"Why not? Even Lupin begins to _smell_ humans differently the day of his transformation."

The wolf-child folds his arms upon the table and rests his chin there, looking up at him. He's smiling.

"Oh, I smell you, that's true. I smell the little girl you're keeping busy in the next room too. I smell your disgust and your fear, as well. And you," he turns to his parents, "I smell your desperation." He looks at them all again, and then shrugs, his chin still on his folded arms. "But you are all members of my boys pack, so why bite you?"

"That is a logical decision."

"Mmmm, yes it is. The dark man would have said 'what a clever conclusion, Dubhán.' But he wouldn't have really meant it, he would have meant 'that was the right answer'." The wolf-child waves a dismissive hand.

"Werewolves are not logical. Do you recall being logical before you were tortured?"

"Wolf's are logical in their own way, but you humans have a different sort of logic. I don't really recall being human-logical after it, to be honest. Although certainly more conscious. I was merely helping us survive. It wasn't until the dark man fed us his own brew of Wolfsbane for weeks on end, hoping to quell the 'feralness' in my boy that I began to truly _think_ in the same fashion as you or the boy.

"So how did you fool the dark man while you couldn't think?"

"I let the boy talk. He is a clever talker. He said things to the dark man that made the dark man interested in us, and as long as he was interested, we were safe."

Severus turns to the window, watching the clouds snail crawl past the sun. He only has hours left. He doesn't think this will ever happen again, to this extreme; or at least, not soon enough for him to wait. He'd nearly begged Potter for the opportunity, and in front of the child no less.

"Normally would the boy be able to overthrow your control?"

The amber eyes narrow.

"We don't fight each other. We used to, before the dark man."

"How so?"

"The closer to my moon day, the more I would show through in his behavior, I suppose. I don't like listening to humans. I knew very few words. 'No' was one. Growling seemed to mean the same to humans. I think all werewolves know these things; Geoffrey growls more right before his moon day. We begin to smell each other, recognize each other, understand our wolf behavior, even in our human bodies."

So the wolf had once been a normal werewolf.

"But you don't fight anymore?"

"No. We help each other. He knows without me, he would never have survived. Without him, I would never have been able to make the dark man interested, and so would have died, too."

There is a pause. The wolf-boy tips his head again and leans forward.

"Why so many questions?"

"I am a Potions Master, a man of research; this is an opportunity I probably won't have again."

"Pish, that means little to me. You are like the boy, you mean. You always want to know _why_. Sometimes more than anything else."

"Yes."

"You're both more foolish than is good for you."

To Harry and Alexandra's shock, Snape actually laughs.

"Foolish in a brilliant way, yes?"

The wolf-child snorts.

"Those are the boy's words, not mine! Something he used to say to the dark man, to make his eyes go green."

Potter's eyes furrow together and he leans forward, his voice cutting through the kitchen for the first time.

"Go green, what do you mean by that?"

The amber eyes turn to him and narrow slightly, as if they are judging his worth.

"I mean that the boy would say…" he begins, very slowly and very deliberately, "…'foolish in a brilliant way, right Grandfather?' to make him less dangerous. To gain his care. The boy says he does not love, that we can only make him _care_ for us."

"Why do you call him the dark one?"

"Because I have no lords, I will not call him by a name he _made up_, and his real name is dangerous."

"Tom Riddle, you mean?" The wolf-child shrinks back in his chair so much and so fast that it topples over. He looks up at the boy's mother, her eyes strong and powerful, from his tangled position.

"Shut it," he says, very softly and very firmly. "Don't say that name! It makes him _mad_."

"But he's not here."

"It doesn't matter, we don't say that name. We learned our lesson."

Harry shivers, remembering Geoffrey's hollow eyes and defeated tone back in his office all those months ago: _'Foolish, silly child – he should never have called the Dark Lord by his real name. Stupid, stubborn child – he should have screamed and showed weakness.'_

"Who is more afraid of the name, you or the boy?"

The wolf-child has righted the chair and is seated on it again. At Snape's words, he lunges forward, his body half across the table, and growls lowly.

"I'm not _afraid_. It was me who endured the pain. Who felt it turning our insides into fire. Who made sure my boy didn't scream. Who let it rip us apart. It was me, who felt their hands, dragging us away. It was me, who protected us. Me who felt the most. Me who knows the danger of that name."

"Does the boy remember the lesson?"

The wolf-child shivers at the topic, but climbs back off the table and reseats himself.

"Yes."

"Devlin experiences seizures from the torture. Do you?"

"Yes."

"Do you experience anything else?"

The wolf-child growls.

"Not that you need know."

"What if I just _want_ to know?"

He growls again.

"No."

"No what?"

"You don't need to know my weaknesses."

Severus looks out the window at the sky. Afternoon is disappearing. Soon it will be time to lock the boy up. He pulls a potion from out of his robes.

"Drink it."

Amber eyes regard the vial and then he sighs deeply.

"I thought, if I answered you, I would not be drugged."

"This shouldn't disrupt your mind at all."

Another sigh. It sounds more wolf than human, despite the vocal cords it is being made with.

"It is the only way to ensure safety," he says, after the wolf-child makes no move to drink the potion.

"There was only once the dark man didn't make us drink this…" He lifts the vial up and gulps down the potion.

"When was that?"

"The boy says 'no'."

"Pardon?"

"The boy says 'no'. He says not to tell you." He stands up. His shoulders are relaxing and though his eyes stay amber, he somehow looks less feral. "Where do you want to lock me up?"

But no one gets the chance to answer his question. The floo lights up in the living room it's green hue shimmering, even in the hallway outside the kitchen. The wolf-child retches backwards at the green light, and then rushes forward into the hallway.

Harry follows him, confused. That is, until he is standing next to his child as he leans against the wall in the hallway, right next to the living room door.

"I thought…I thought someone had hurt the girl. Green light…it is dangerous."

"It was only the floo…"

"Yes, I see that now."

"Have you seen the Killing Curse?" The amber eyes roam upward to find his green ones. He doesn't look as much like his grandmother, with those eyes.

"Oh, yes," he whispers, his eyes lost and desperate at the same time, his head leaning against the wall, his little chest still rising and falling fast and hard. "It doesn't make any sound at all. One minute they are standing and the next they have fallen. The dark man says it is like a marionette that's had its strings cut."

Harry cringes at his words.

"I'm sorry, Devlin," he whispers hoarsely.

"I'm not your Devlin," the child says, his amber eyes peering intently at him.

"Yes you are. You are part of _my_ boy, so I care about you just as much."

When Harry looks at him next, there is a swirl of green in the amber depths, right around the pitch black of his pupils.

"You stayed with me, that first night. I remember."

"I'll never leave you on purpose, Devlin."

"You wouldn't let the white men near me or my creator."

"Remus."

"Mmm, yes, him."

"He'll be back soon. Devlin told us he doesn't like transforming alone."

Devlin smiles.

**PLEASE REVIEW.**

**Upcoming: **

**"Did you know, that my boy knows something about that man?" He is smiling now, a small twisted small that makes Harry wonder _what_ Devlin knows about Severus Snape. **

**"Oh?"**

**"Mmmm, he once fancied a…what does he call them, a girl who didn't know she was a witch." **


	42. Unpleasant Thoughts

The next morning, Devlin wanders down to breakfast in his pajamas, something that has become routine after his transformation, and sits down silently. Alexandra got up early to make his favorite breakfast and Remus gives him a warm smile over his coffee. Harry waits for his son to look at him. He wants to see his green eyes.

"Morning," the boy says softly, still staring at the table.

"Good morning, Devy!" Emma says enthusiastically. She bounces in her seat.

The boy just sighs and buries his head in his arms, which wasn't uncommon this day of the month, either.

"How are you feeling?" Harry asks, unable to remain patient any longer.

Finally, Devlin looks up at him and there are his green eyes. After his transformation, they are always pure green. As if the wolf, having gotten his day, slinks back to rest.

"I'm alright. Tired." Harry nods.

"Ah, do you, erm, remember yesterday?"

Green eyes move sluggishly back to him.

"Yes."

"Falling off your broom and stuff?"

"Yes."

"Erm, growling at us, too?"

"Yes."

"And-"

"I remember everything, Dad. Just like he's gonna remember this."

"Oh, alright. I was just wondering." Harry smiles brightly. Devlin, he swears, rolls his eyes.

"Of course you were. Just like Snape had to ask all those bloody questions."

"Ooooh, mum, Devlin said a bad word!" Emma is pointing her finger at Devlin, who just stares at her tiredly.

"Yes well, we'll let Devlin slip this time Emma. He's very sick and very tired."

"Oh, alright mummy."

OoOoOoO

Every morning, Harry Potter waits impatiently for Devlin to climb down the stairs, to sit down at the table, and to glance in his direction. Every day, he wonders if those eyes will ever be all amber again. It has become a pattern now. Sometimes Harry thinks he could tell you how many days are left until the full moon by how much green is left in Devlin's eyes. Yet there is _always_ green.

Months pass uninterrupted this way.

Devlin seems more certain of their love for him than ever. He never asks about the letter or the journal. He smiles and laughs with Emma. He has befriended the staff at the bakery, just like when he was little.

And then one night this normalcy (oh how his Aunt would cringe at Harry's use of this word) shatters abruptly. Harry and Alex are re-warding the house, something they do every month or so, picking a new set of wards to redo (because they never, ever take them _all_ down). They vanish all traces of magic in the hallways and bedrooms, in order to redo them. It is that moment, when everything seems to be going according to plan, when they hear the scream.

Harry knows it is Devlin's and he rushes to his door. At first it sounds like the boy when he is having a seizure, but then he realizes it is different. It isn't the sound of _pain_; it is the sound of torture. Like the scream of that little Bowman boy, as he'd coward in the corner near his father's body. Like pure _fear_.

He reaches for the knob, but the very touch of it burns his hand. Obviously, they'd taken down a silencing charm in their re-warding. Alexandra is next to him in an instant.

For one moment, the screams stop. Harry and Alex look at each other. Both know it isn't a good sign.

"No, help him! Help him!" Devlin cries out, obviously sobbing.

Harry withdraws his wand and curses the door and it slams open, off its hinges. Zee looks up from his place curled against the boy.

"It can't be that unusual if he's not reacting…" Alexandra whispers, reaching out to Devlin.

"Get away from me! Get away!" The boy is scrambling into the corner of his bed, still clearly dreaming. "Get away!"

"Devlin?" The dog is looking at them, his head half cocked.

His eyes snap open. They are feverish and pure amber. Harry's breath catches in his throat.

"Get away from me! Get him away! Let him go!" Those amber eyes may be open, but they aren't staring at Harry or Alex.

"Devlin, you're dreaming."

"Please, save him!"

And now the boy is clawing at himself, red lines appearing down the length of his arms. When he reaches for his face, Alex grabs him.

"No," she says, very softly. He cowers back.

"Please, save him. Get him away from me…please…"

Harry isn't sure what to do. The boy is awake, yet obviously he isn't. He's speaking to them as if they are part of his dream.

"Devy?" Harry spins around to see Emma in her nightgown. For a moment Devlin's eyes, or perhaps the wolf's eyes, focus on her. He whimpers.

"Go away, Emma. Run! Run!"

"Devy?" She's crying, clearly not understanding what is going on.

"Get her away from me! Get away Emma! I'll hurt you! Please don't let me hurt her!"

"I won't let you hurt her," Harry says firmly, stepping into his line of sight.

"You shouldn't be here. No one should be here. Get away. I'll hurt you."

Alexandra is the first one to understand.

"Devlin, you're a little boy. Look, you have hands!" She holds his hands in front of his face, using them to pat his face. "You're a boy, not a wolf."

The amber eyes look up and seem to at last focus completely. Yet, there is no green. His shoulders slump.

"I had a night-mover."

"A what?" Harry asks.

"Something you see at night, but isn't there, that makes you move. Like chasing something." Harry blinks a couple times, than realizes that, to the wolf, a dream must be altogether different. Like Zee, flat on his side, running wildly in his sleep.

"It's not real," Alexandra says softly.

"It's real. Just not happening anymore," the boy (or wolf), says softly. He breathes deeply, slumping against the headboard.

"What was it about?" Emma asks, coming all the way into the room.

"Can't tell you," he breathes.

"You can tell me, Devlin. I tell you my nightmares."

And perhaps it is her innocence or her age or something altogether different, but Devlin actually leans forward, towards her.

"You think I can keep you safe," he says sorrowfully, each word like it's being dragged from his gut. "If only you knew that I can't keep anyone safe."

"You kept me safe-"

But Devlin has scampered forward to the edge of his bed, to mere inches from Emma's face, and he is breathing heavily. He looks at her brokenly.

"Hush," he says gently. Emma nods slowly and a look of resoluteness passing across her face. Harry reminds himself to ask Emma about this later.

"You can still tell me," she whispers, while her parents stand silently, hoping she will succeed where they are sure they will fail.

"Yeah, I could tell you. I could tell you all about it, and then you could come whimpering and crying back to me for months on end from nightmares _I _gave you."

Emma shrinks back a little.

"You're being mean, Devy," she says.

"I'm being truthful."

Before she can start crying, Alex puts her hands onto Emma's shoulders and whispers words to her as she leads her out of the room. 'Devlin must be very scared right now, Emma. Let him talk to Daddy.' Devlin growls lowly at their departure.

"I'm not scared," he seethes.

"Emma doesn't need to know it isn't _her_ Devlin," Harry says, matter of factly.

Devlin's amber eyes come back to him and he sighs.

"No, I suppose not. She's only a child."

"It's no where near _your time_," Harry points out, gently.

"It was, in my boys dream!" He says defensively.

"Who where you trying to save?"

"I don't know. I don't remember it well."

"Another werewolf?"

"Perhaps. I can't be sure."

"You're being evasive."

"Really? You caught onto that? I'm impressed."

"Stop being rude."

The nine year old glares up at him.

"Stop speaking to me about things neither one of wants to remember, then."

"No."

Another glare.

"I want you to calm down."

"Why ever would you want that?"

"Because the sooner you calm down, the sooner I can talk to the boy who actually _had_ the nightmare."

Something in the wolf seems to be hurt by this notion.

"He might be the one who had the nightmare, sir, but I am the one who _did_ it."

"Did what?"

He opens his mouth, but then suddenly stops.

"How clever. I'm quicker than that, though."

"I know. Would you like some hot coco?"

"Don't you want to save that for my boy?"

"It sounds like I misunderstood – you're both upset right now." Something softens in those amber eyes. Harry wonders how long the wolf has had to be the strongest force in Devlin. Has had to protect him.

Severus said this was highly unusual. That something had happened to Devlin's brain to take down the separation between Devlin and his wolf. 'The only reason they don't compete constantly is probably simply that the werewolf would prefer the company of it's own kind and avoids being the dominant force'.

While Harry thought Severus might be onto something, Harry thinks he isn't quite right. Harry remembers the look of complete horror and fear and protectiveness that had overtaken Remus the first time, after he'd bitten Devlin, that the boy had scraped his knee and there had been _blood_.

Remus' eyes had gone almost-all amber and he had practically pushed Alexandra away from the boy, so he could see him and hold him. And every time Devlin would let out a whimper, Remus would twitch.

"If you told me, I could help," he says softly, as he leads them down the hallway.

"No one can help me," his child whispers, amber eyes wet with tears. Briefly Harry wonders how much Severus would pay him for _these_ tears. Harry would pay him a million **Gallions** to make them disappear. "I have done horrible things."

"You are a child who was kidnapped by a monster. He made you do things. I understand. I won't think you're horrible. You had no choice."

"He doesn't see it that way," his child says, looking at his feet as Harry pours milk into two mugs.

"Devlin, you mean?"

"Yes."

"How does he see it?"

"As something we should have prevented or stopped."

"Like Maria Watson?"

"Yes."

"But something got in your way of preventing or stopping this?"

Now those tears are falling, one after another, quicker and quicker. From between his lips comes a whimper that Harry would have thought came from Zee, except that the boy was right there and Zee wasn't in the kitchen at all.

"I got in the way. _Me."_ And his lip quivers. "He doesn't understand really, how little I can control, because we've always had that potion."

And suddenly, even though the boy hasn't come out and said it directly, Harry realizes what he must mean. Voldemort had skipped a dose of Wolfsbane _on purpose. _For a purpose.

"He thinks that if we tried hard enough, I'd be able to _stop_, but I _can't_. I couldn't stop. I couldn't think. Not thinking made me so dizzy."

The boy twitches. Harry's glad he hasn't handed the boy the hot coco yet.

"My boy doesn't want me to tell you. He's mad at me."

"You can help me, help him," Harry whispers, leaning down so that they're eye to eye. "He can stop having nightmares about it. Stop being hurt by it."

"Like the Maria girl?"

"Yes, like her."

"But you can't fix this."

"Maybe not…but we can help him see that it was something _done_ to you, not that you had a choice about."

His child breathes heavily before him, his chest rising and falling and his teeth clattering as the sobs escape him. Harry draws him against his body and holds him there. He slumps against him.

"I bit a boy," he chokes. "They put him in there. They wanted me to bite him."

"Why?" Harry tries desperately to keep his voice even.

"We never knew," he says, sobbing in earnest. "Until he saw the paper."

"What about the paper?"

His teeth are clattering and he stalls several times as he tries to talk.

"Every wolf has a pack," he says bracingly, as if he has to force each word through his throat. "And each pack smells a certain way. It's how we know we belong..."

…_and Remus would have been able to tell him if the boy didn't smell like _his_ pack... _

Harry drew in a stabilizing breath. Devlin biting the boy had been what had made it foolproof, because it had even fooled Remus. It had been another check on the chart: _werewolf__._

"This isn't something you have to be ashamed about, or afraid about. This is something Voldemort _forced_ you to do. This is not something you _chose_ to do."

"I know." But it is those amber eyes looking up at him and Harry wishes it were those green. He wishes Devlin knew, too.

Harry guides him over to a chair and lifts him onto it. He slides the hot coco in front of his space.

"Am I really mad?" His son asks, wiping away the tears. "Sometimes I think something is very wrong with me, to be able to sit down at a table with a human, but then I look at my hands, and I'm one too."

Harry swallows.

"Severus suspects there is a magical division in the brain between the werewolf and the human and that you withstanding Crucio broke down your 'separation'. He thinks that your shared magic knew that in order to survive, you had to be _one_, because separately you were both broken."

"Then why am I sometimes just me?"

"Severus says it is no longer a magical separation. He believes that sometimes you or sometimes Devlin 'block' the other out. Like Occlumency preformed within your brain. You each share memories after all."

"If that were true, then Devlin could have saved that boy."

"It's possible that all of the seizures have since made the 'oneness' worse."

"So if I were the wolf and that boy was here now, now Devlin might be able to save him?"

"Yeah, maybe. That's what Severus thinks, anyways."

"Severus does a lot of thinking…"

Harry laughs.

"Did you know, that my boy knows something about that man?" He is smiling now, a small twisted small that makes Harry wonder _what_ Devlin knows about Severus Snape.

"Oh?"

"Mmmm, he once fancied a…what does he call them, a girl who didn't know she was a witch."

"A muggle born?"

"Yes."

"I didn't know Severus ever fancied anyone, to be honest."

"The dark man's people say he has a thing for red heads or 'a red head'."

"Is that so?" Harry murmured, sipping his coco. He really had little interest in Snape's 'type' but if this was what his son was willing to share about his time with Voldemort right now, he'd damn well listen. He wouldn't have Devlin, or the wolf, ever thinking he didn't want to hear about his time with Voldemort.

"And green eyes." His son is observing him with a small smile, as if waiting for his response. It is a look his mother wears, when she is waiting for him to figure something out. Harry finally takes a sip of coco, which had been frozen at his lips.

"Green eyes, you say?"

"Mmmhmmm," the boy says, that smile still clinging to his lips.

"You're not going to make me guess are you?" He asks, setting the cup down and leaning forward, even though he thinks the answer is going to make him feel nauseous.

"It would be more fun," he points out, taking a gulp of coco.

"Not for me."

"That's probably true."

"So will you just tell me?"

"No. I'll get in trouble."

"With who?" His voice goes up a bit at the end. Now he's thinking about the possibility and it is making every single nerve of his taunt with uncertainty and anxiety.

"With my boy, of course. I just wondered if you knew, was all."

Harry thinks that the wolf is what had given his sweet little three year old his sneaky, mischievous, taunting side.

OoOoO

The next morning, Harry waits impatiently at the table for his green-eyed son, but he never comes.

"Devlin says he's not hungry," Emma reports, when Harry asks her if she's seen Devlin.

"Did he seem sick?"

"Mmm, no. Grumpy I think." She puts another piece of bacon into her mouth.

"I'll go talk to him."

But there is a hand on his shoulder. It's Alexandra.

"Harry, I think he probably is trying to avoid _you_. He's not going to react well to you coming into his room. Just let him be. He'll come down, even if it's after Sirius and Remus get here."

"You mean after I'm gone?"

"Oh, you're right, you would be then, wouldn't you?" She smiles a bit, and leans over and kisses him. "Now get to work."

Grumbling, he gets up and heads towards the floo.

Sitting on the stairs as he passes, is his son, his green eyes sullen and hurt.

"Hi, Devlin," he says, trying to smile comfortingly.

"I don't want to talk to you," he whispers, an edge of sharp hurt, squeezing Harry's heart.

"Alright. I'm off to work. Mum has breakfast for you. I love you." Those green eyes, those _pure_, green eyes, looks away from him. Harry takes his leave, sighing heavily.

oOoOo

"Hey, sweetie."

Devlin sits down at the table.

"Devlin?"

"Mmm?"

"Sirius and Remus will be over today."

"I know. I heard."

"Alright. It's Emma's school's reopening. So I'm going to take her to school once Sirius gets here."

"Alright." He spares Emma a glance. She is biting her lip. He sighs and dredges up the energy to lean close to her. "It'll be alright, Emma," he whispers to her, trying to sound comforting.

"I know," she says, but her voice is small, uncertain and fearful. She really doesn't know.

"You know it will be alright. Remember?"

Her hand comes up to her neck and she rubs at it absently.

"I remember," she says, sounding a bit more confident.

"Good."

He goes back to staring at his food, not sure if he can stomach any of the breakfast.

Upcoming:

"**See, that's why we're different. I couldn't have ever 'told' it to save me. There were plenty of times that Dudley caught me, or Aunt Petunia gave me hideous clothes, or someone called my parent's good-for-nothing-drunks, but I didn't always disapperate, or change the clothing, or blow the nay-sayers up like a balloon." **

"**Did you **_**ever**_** blow someone up like a balloon?" He asks incredulously. **

"**Oh yeah, I did!" He smiles sheepishly. "Don't tell your mum I told you that, though. She'll think I'm feeding you inappropriate ideas."**


	43. The Truth

**A/N: this is the last chapter before we make a major jump in time and I start having to write all over again! I have about 50 pages written after this chapter, but there is a small gap I have to fill in. Please send me lots of encouraging reviews! :D**

Remus is staring at him in what he _thinks_ is an inconspicuous way, over the top of a book. Sirius is blatantly watching him. Zee is scuffling at the sofa, trying to dig under the piece of furniture to the kneazle beneath.

Finally Devlin has had enough and rescues the poor kitten.

"He'll get used to you, Emity," Devlin says softly, scratching the kitten that has already clung itself to his shoulder.

_Mmmmine_ she purrs, rubbing her head against his cheek.

"That might be one reason you don't get along though," he whispers, sitting back on the sofa. Zee jumps up too, but he seems to have little problem with the kitten when it is in his master hands. He lays his head in Devlin's lap and instead just _watches_ the kitten. Devlin thinks Zee's eyes are the only eyes in this room not directed at him. Well, and his own eyes, of course.

oOoOo

Devlin knows something is wrong. He wonders if the last seizure had been the last straw and now he is officially 'mad'. He wonders if it is just the change in environment, which makes him both stressed and comfortable at the same time. He wonders many things, but he knows, in the end, something is just 'wrong'.

His wolf shouldn't have this control over him. He never has before. He's never said things Devlin hadn't wanted said. They'd worked at a team, for the benefit of each other. He didn't understand. What was more, his wolf almost never 'took over' except for immediately after the Cruciatus Curse or sometimes after a seizure.

He sneaks down the stairs and into the living room. He can hear Remus and Sirius in the kitchen. Zee, on the sofa, looks up and see's his approach. His tail wags.

"Hush," Devlin whispers, making his way to the fireplace. He reaches up to the mantle, stretching his hand and standing on his tiptoes to be tall enough. His fingers brush by the jar of floo powder. It's no use; he's not tall enough.

He's just about to turn around and find a chair, when something that should have been obvious, occurs to him. It resounds in his head, in his grandfather's voice.

'You're a wizard, aren't you?'

So he makes the jar come to his hand and he brings it down to his level to open it up.

"Whacha doing?"

Devlin freezes and turns slowly around to see Sirius standing at the sofa, patting Zee's head. He stays silent. To say anything would be stupid.

"Devlin?"

He magic's the jar back up onto the mantle. He begins to walk past Sirius, but the man grabs his hand.

"Let me go!"

"What were you about to do?"

"I said, let me go."

"Devlin, please, talk to me."

"Let me go."

"No."

One word answers were never good. That's what Voldemort would say when he was at the end of his temper; Devlin shrinks back a little, trying to pull his arm free.

"Sirius?" It is Remus. Devlin turns toward the werewolf, hoping for rescue. Geoffrey always found a way to rescue him from the worst of the punishments.

"He was trying to go through the floo, Remus!"

"Oh, Devlin." There is sadness in the werewolf's eyes. Yet it doesn't seem like he'll rescue him, either.

"Let me go, please," he says softly, trying desperately to keep the tears at bay. Tears are no good.

"Not until you tell us what's going on."

He wants to disappear. He doesn't know how to act. He just wants to be somewhere he understands. He wants his mum or dad or even grandfather. Someone he understands. Sirius is such a wildcard. He whines and argues with Remus all the time. He had been an Auror, when he had been younger.

"Devlin?" He realizes he's fallen completely still, his hard breathing and the fact that he's still standing, the only way they must know he's alive.

"Let go," he croaks, sobbing now.

"Devlin, please talk to us."

_Stop thinking. Stop feeling. Just do what has to be done. _

"I was only going to call my Dad," he says softly. The hand lets go of his wrist. He draws his hand back quickly, to his side.

"Why didn't you just ask us?"

"I didn't think I needed too."

"Have you ever used the floo here before?"

"No."

"It doesn't work for underage wizards."

"I didn't know." He scuffs the brown carpet with his shoe.

"If you had come to us, we could have helped."

"Alright."

He starts walking away.

"Devlin?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't you, er, want to call your dad?"

"You just said if I'd asked you, you could've helped. I didn't ask you."

"But we know now, so we can help…"

He still hadn't turned around. He just didn't have the energy.

"That's not what you said."

He can see Remus looking intently behind him, probably at Sirius. It is one of those regards grown-ups share between themselves as they worry about the stupidity of a child. But Devlin isn't stupid, he's just cautious; it's not his fault these people aren't clear. They say 'you should have' but they don't hold you accountable for _not_ doing whatever they wanted you to do.

"Why did you want to call him, Devlin?" Now Remus' brown eyes are on him again.

He shrugs.

"I just wanted to talk."

_About how something doesn't _feel_ right. About how I think I'm going mad. About the boy I bit. _

He walks away before either of them can say anything else and trudges back upstairs.

He wonders what Emma is doing. She's probably playing with Freddie. He'd like to be playing with Freddie, because then he wouldn't be thinking about this.

_But they don't trust you. They probably think you'd hurt Emma if they weren't around, or hurt the other kids. _

He wouldn't.

_But you've bitten a kid before! _

And now they _knew_ that. It was so shameful. Even in normal werewolf circles, it was disgraceful to have bitten a minor. If Geoffrey knew…

He crawls into bed and pulls the covers over his head. Inside his warm cave, he whispers the most powerful silencing charm he knows. Only then, does he cry.

The first thing he hears when he wakes up is Emma's feet running up the stairs and then her voice as she shouts his name from the top of them. He curls in deeper to his bed. If he comes out, she will fill his ears about how _wonderful_ the day had been and all the people she had played with and all the homework she has to do. He'd like to be doing homework. He used to have tutors and classes and essay's to complete on time _or else_. He used to keep as busy as possible, but now he had _nothing_ to do.

He ignores her knocking and he sighs in relief when the shout from upstairs reaches his ears: "Emma, come back downstairs!"

He drifts off to sleep again, trying to figure out, based on Emma's homework, how far ahead of her he was.

The next time he wakes up, it is to someone knocking on his door again. He pulls the covers closer to him.

"Devlin, it's Dad. Dinner is almost ready."

He should answer, but he doesn't.

"Devlin?"

He finds himself being mad at his father, even while he feels so mortified. The only thing that both parts of him agree on is staying under the covers.

"Devlin, I'd really like to talk…"

He screams into his blanket, the silencing charm making the sound reverberate loudly under the blanket. He doesn't know how to feel and all that not knowing is making him feel like he'll explode.

'_You did so well last night,' his grandfather had murmured the day after he'd bitten the boy. He'd _smiled_ because he couldn't _remember_ a damn thing. It had been weeks later that his wolf had shared the memory with him. Perhaps it had been weeks later that he _could_ share memories with him. Devlin isn't sure. Everything from those early days is a swirl of pain and fear and uncertainty with brief moments of pride and joy at feeling a mediocre of value and safety. _

He feels sick to his stomach at the memory. His screams turn into sobs. He barely notices when his door opens and someone cancels his silencing charm. He falls still when a weight settles onto the edge of his bed and peaks his head out from under the blanket. His father is sitting there, his hands folded on his lap, fiddling with his wand. He isn't looking at him.

"You're not supposed to be here," he says, his voice scathing.

"You're not supposed to hide that you're hurting."

He flops back down, hiding his face from his father.

"Devlin, we need to talk."

"I don't want to talk to you now."

"When do you want to talk?"

"Never!" He tries murmuring a silencing charm again, but his father swishes his wand and it is canceled.

"No more silencing charms." He sits up so that he can glare at his father. "If something is bothering you, come talk to an adult."

Another glare.

"I heard you tried to call me today," he says softly, kindly.

"I lied."

"Excuse me?"

"I wasn't trying to call you."

His father's eyebrows rise up.

"Then what were you doing?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yeah, it does. You know it does."

"I was gonna call Professor Snape."

"_Why?"_

"You can't make me tell you."

"No, I can't."

"Not even if you used the curse."

"The Imperius curse?"

"Yeah. I know how to break it."

His father is looking at him with admiration.

"There are a lot of fifth years at Hogwart's who can't do that."

"Yeah well, I'm _good_ at magic!" He's aware his voice is a little louder than it needs to be, but somehow he isn't been able to stop its volume.

"You're more than good at magic, Devlin," his father says, his eyes going back to his wand. "You have a control over it that is sometimes startling. Sometimes I look at you and I wonder if I'm in the same room as the next Albus Dumbledore, or Voldemort, or Grindelwald."

"Or you?"

His father's green eyes turn to him, startled.

"Oh no, you and I are different. I don't have the control over my magic like Albus or Voldemort does. When I was little, it would save me from things, like my cousin chasing me, or when my Aunt gave me this hideous haircut, my hair grew back. Or one time, I'm told, she was about to put this disgusting sweater on me, and the sweater just began to shrink."

"My magic doesn't do that."

"No?"

"I don't think it does stuff unless I make it. Except…maybe when it thought I was going to go mad that one time…"

Harry smiles softly.

"See, that's why we're different. I couldn't have ever 'told' it to save me. There were plenty of times that Dudley caught me, or Aunt Petunia gave me hideous clothes, or someone called my parent's good-for-nothing-drunks, but I didn't always disapperate, or change the clothing, or blow the nay-sayers up like a balloon."

"Did you _ever_ blow someone up like a balloon?" He asks incredulously.

"Oh yeah, I did!" He smiles sheepishly. "Don't tell your mum I told you that, though. She'll think I'm feeding you inappropriate ideas."

"Why'd you blow them up?"

"Well, it was my Aunt Marge, and she said some pretty nasty things about my mum and dad. It just got to be too much."

"Oh." He looks away. "Does Mum really think you shouldn't tell me that stuff?"

"Yeah, but I think all mum's are like that."

He shrugs.

"I wouldn't blow someone up, you know." He looks away at his hands.

His father laughs awkwardly.

"I didn't think you would."

"I wouldn't hurt anyone that wasn't hurting me…"

"I don't think that of you either."

"Then why don't you trust me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why won't you let me _do things_?"

"What did you want to do?"

"I'm smart, you know."

"Oh, I definitely know that."

"I'm good at spells and essays and almost everything."

"Amazingly so, yes."

"Then why don't I get to do any of it? I used to have tutors, you know. I used to write three or more foot essays."

"I er…I figured you probably wanted a break. Your mum and I didn't want to push you. And you never told us that, either. We didn't know."

Devlin frowns.

"If you wanted to have tutors, we could do that. If you want to write essays, that can be arranged…although I really did think I was doing you a favor not asking you to do that while you were still adjusting…"

"So, I could go to Emma's school?"

Suddenly his father looks away. He purses his lips.

"No."

"Because you think I'm stupid or I'd hurt someone!" He accuses.

"No, that's not why."

"Then why not!"

"Because there are something's that even your mum and I can't change for you, Devlin. No matter how much we want to…we can't." He swallows hard. "You're not allowed there."

"Because they know I was around Death Eaters?"

"No, although I'm sure if I argued with them again, they'd try to bring that up too. It's much simpler than that, and far more unfair."

Devlin is looking at him intently, his eyes wide and anxious and still a little accusing.

"You're a werewolf and even today, the stigma…they won't allow it. Hogwarts is the only school in Europe that has _ever_ allowed a werewolf to be taught inside of its walls."

"So…it's not because you think I'd hurt them or Emma or try and escape or because I'm stupid?"

He closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath – a very deep breath.

"No."

"Did you ask them?"

"I asked them. I tried to use favors. I threatened to go public… but the Headmaster just sat me down and said: "don't force it. You may get what you want, but he won't get what he needs."" He sighs. "And he was right. You might have gotten in, but many children would have been told to stay away from you, and most parents would argue and threaten…and you wouldn't have gotten what you _needed_. What any child needs out of a school situation: a non-judgmental atmosphere, a nurturing environment, a fair playing field…I couldn't give that to you there. I can't give that too you. Even at Hogwarts, people will avoid you, but at least by that time, lots of kids are thinking for themselves…"

They look at each other for a long moment.

"Is it like that everywhere?"

His father looks at him, his regard intent and searching. He hadn't expected to see such uncertainty and confusion in his son's eyes about this subject. Was it possible Voldemort had sheltered him from the stigma?

"Yeah, it is."

"Everyone will be afraid of me?"

A deep breath, "Not everyone, but a lot of them."

"No one has ever been afraid of me for _that_, I don't think…" He bites his lower lip. "Maybe there were just other things to be afraid about."

"I'm so sorry, Devlin."

Devlin shrugs. He's never really thought of himself as scary for _that_ reason. He knows he is capable of things that other children aren't. How many nine year olds can perform the Imperius Curse, after all? He knows the knowledge puts him in a position of power, of some sorts, but he had never thought that without all his training and tutoring and time with Voldemort, that people would have still regarded him with this uncertainty and fear. Would everyone look at him like Professor Snape had looked at his wolf?

_They have every right to be afraid…you bit that boy. _

He swallows hard.

"It's alright," he mumbles through his suddenly dry mouth. This is just another sacrifice to make sure everyone is okay, like staying with Voldemort no matter what to protect Emma. He _shouldn't_ let anyone trust him.

He hears his father give an extended sigh.

"It's not alright, Devlin, it's unfair and unjust and I wish I could fix it all for you."

"It's not unfair," he says softly, his voice calm and empty. He's resigned himself to this new discovery. Now he understands why no one trusts him. It's because he _can't_ be trusted.

"Of course it is!" His father says, his voice defensive. Devlin keeps his eyes on his own hands.

"They're right to be afraid of me," he continues, trying to keep his voice above a whisper.

"What?" His father leans forward, so that Devlin can see his eyes out of the corner of his own eyes. "What are you talking about, Devlin?"

"They're right to be afraid. That little boy, he was afraid of me. He was _so_ afraid. He trusted me, and all I did was get him _killed_."

"People have every right to be afraid of an unmedicated werewolf that could harm them – absolutely. But there is no reason to be afraid of _you_."

"I'm not normal. You said yourself that my wolf isn't separate like other werewolves. Maybe there will come a time when I am so angry that I can't stop him."

"You're wolf isn't entirely wolfish either, Devlin."

"I couldn't stop him then. That boy _begged_ begged me. He screamed my name. He screamed for his mum. He screamed that he'd be 'good' and that he wouldn't be a 'muggle' anymore. He screamed just for screaming, without any words. None of it stopped me. I bit him."

"You were not given Wolfsbane, Devlin."

Devlin begins sobbing.

OoOoO

At dinner Devlin moves his mash potatoes around with his fork, sculpting them into pyramids and mountains and other things that are more entertaining than simply eating them would have been.

"Devlin, are you alright?" His mum asks softly. He supposed his dad hadn't told her about his sob-fest earlier. He makes to meet her eyes, but at the last moment, lowers them to his plate again. He can't look her in the eyes.

"Yeah, fine," he mumbles, trying to sound certain. Inside part of him withers at his cowardice and another parts begs her to see past his falsehood and _make him tell_.

"Alright," she says instead, eyeing his father, who simply shrugs. He's a mystery to them. They're afraid to push him, prod him, or otherwise stress him out. A long silence passes over the table. Finally Alexandra and Harry start talking about work and fill in the silence.

He is just about to bring a piece of mash potato to his mouth, when he catches sight of Emma, _staring_ at him.

"What are you lookin' at?" He asks, a bit defensively. Sometimes her stares are downright creepy because the eyes are so innocent, yet she seems to _know_ things about you, just from staring.

"Are you alright, Devlin?" She asks softly.

He growls a bit.

"Didn't you hear me say I was to Mum, a minute ago?"

"I heard," she says slowly and patiently, like she's talking to someone who just can't see the sense in her words, "but I think you were fibbing."

She was staring at him again and he feels his heart quicken a bit at the possibility that she would see _everything_. He didn't want _her_ to understand.

"I'm fine," he says again, hoping to alleviate her concern.

"I don't believe you," she says, tipping her head and regarding him with such love and kindness and innocence that it confuses him.

"Why?" Part of him clings to the possibility that she _knows_ and_ she_ will tell them. That he won't have too.

"Because you don't look okay," she whispers, leaning forward. By now Mum and Dad have gone quiet, regarding both of them.

"I'm fine."

"You've been acting weird," she points out, her eyebrows quirking.

"Maybe I'm just weird," he defends, putting the forkful of mash potatoes in his mouth.

"Maybe you're sick," she says, as a comeback. Her eyebrows quirk again.

"I'm not one of your dolly's," he says "stop trying to mother me!" He isn't sure why he's angry with her. Moments before he had _wanted_ her to know, but now the mere idea that she sees he is falling apart frightens him.

"I didn't say you were!" She says loudly, pouting at him.

"Then stop saying I'm not okay when I said I'm fine!"

"Then stop acting all weird!"

"I'm not acting weird!"

"Yes you are! You are! You are!"

"Stop it!" His plate of food flies into the air and soars across the room, breaking into pieces as it slams into the cupboard. The food explodes and everyone is sprayed with mash potatoes and chicken.

Emma looks taken aback. She is staring at him with wide eyes.

"Erm, that was interesting," Mum says, and swishes her wand to clean the mess up.

Devlin can feel himself slipping away. It's like Crucio without the pain. Once more, his wolf catches him and keeps them _there_; keeps them from slipping into the darkness that is _dangerous, dangerous, dangerous! _

Everything goes still. His magic is frozen beneath his fingers. He licks his lips and swallows past his suddenly dry throat.

"Something _is_ wrong," he says softly, with an edge of desperation. "Right now. Something is wrong right _now_."

Emma is frowning at him, as if she isn't certain where this is going but knows it is over her head.

"What's wrong?" His mum asks, bending down so that she's in front of him.

"I donno," he whispers. He feels every muscle in his body and is suddenly aware of how much concentration it takes to keep him upright. "I donno." Words are even harder, taking precision movements and planning that is almost beyond him.

"Are you about to have a seizure, Devlin?" Mum asks, her bright blue eyes filling his vision.

He debates for a moment and then decides it will be easier to move his head than to form words. So he nods his head.

"I'll get a potion," Dad whispers and dashes way.

"Already," he says desperately, hoping they'll understand.

His mum's eyes go wide and she stands up suddenly.

"Stay here," she whispers and kisses him on his hair.

It's not like he has much choice in the matter. It is either standing or collapsing, but there is no chance he'd move very far. He feels trapped in his own body, his muscles tense like he's under Crucio, but without an ounce of pain. He realizes that he's _him_, when he should be the wolf. He is always the wolf during these episodes. A shiver runs up his spine and for a moment he feels a glimmer of pain, but then it is gone.

He can smell him before he can see him. He smells like the thick metal of a cauldron. Like herbs and blood and venom. He smells like what Devlin loves and for a moment calmness washes over him.

"Open you're eyes and look at me," Snape orders, his voice sharp and commanding. Devlin obeys; for a moment it is like he is back home with Grandfather. This man does not hug, kiss, or comfort. He fixes things without emotion, even though desiring to fix things like a boy must require quite a bit of emotions to be present in him. Deep in him. Never at the surface. He and Devlin are a lot alike. "What are you feeling?"

His mind has opened up and now he feels like he can at least command his throat and tongue and lips to do his bidding. He feels his wolf at his side again, helping him. They are a team.

"Like Crucio, without the pain."

Emma's eyes are wide behind Snape. Somewhere she has heard that word, perhaps whispered in a hush voice by an older student, perhaps behind their parents bedroom door, before they'd realized she was outside their door. Wherever she has learned it from, it is clear she simply knows it is a terrible thing.

"You're muscles are tense?"

Devlin nods.

"Did you take your medication?"

"Yes," he says.

Like clockwork, his father comes around the corner with the vial, startled to see Snape in his kitchen.

There is a briefest of moments, when he comes around the corner and before Snape turns his head to acknowledge his presence, that Devlin see's the Harry Potter everyone else must see. His wand is drawn in a blink of an eye. His face is not quite harsh, but neither is it welcoming; it looks like a fighters face, anticipating battle.

"Put your wand down, Potter," Snape growls, motioning to his still-poised weapon. That is all it takes for Devlin's Harry Potter to come back. His sheepish smile. His welcoming smile that makes Devlin feel four years old again.

Devlin wonders if it's all a mask, for him. Devlin wonders, for the first time, if Harry Potter and he aren't a lot alike, too.

"Sorry, Snape. I didn't know Alexandra sent for you."

"Humf," Snape says, as way of acknowledgement. A moment passes and then, "Well, aren't you going to give the boy his medicine. I want to watch the effect."

Harry hands the vial to Devlin who brings it slowly to his lips. The whole process still seems more complex than it should, to Devlin.

The potion tastes as disgusting as always.

"Frog!" He cries desperately, wanting the fowl taste to vanish_ now_.

"No," Snape says, his black eyes searching his whole face. Watching him. "It could react with the potion, even minutely."

Devlin nods, even if there is a desperate look to his eyes. The horrible taste lingers in his throat, feeling like acid slowly eroding the tissue.

"How much does he weigh?" Snape asks, turning suddenly to Harry.

"I don't know," Harry says, shrugging.

"No matter," Snape sneers and withdraws his wand, waving it over Devlin's head. He is lifted into the air by an inch or so then settled down again. Numbers appear above his head: 61.

"Now what was his weight when he came to you?"

Alexandra is looking at Harry expectantly, but Harry simply shrugs.

"We didn't get that far at the healers," he says, smiling sheepishly again.

"I weighed 55," Devlin says quietly. He's not sure why Snape hadn't asked him in the first place. It is, after all, a question about _him_.

"How do you feel now?"

"Fine." Which was true. The tenseness in his muscles had vanished. His magic was back, buzzing under his skin.

"It is a weight discrepancy. The potion must need to be periodically updated. There is probably a formula for each weight increase. Were you weighed regularly?"

"About once a month."

"Why didn't you tell us your potion would need to be updated?" Snape says, with a slight edge of a sneer.

"I didn't know. No one ever told me!"

"Indeed. It would render you quite unstable, mentally, to be only partway medicated. How very convenient."

Devlin frowns, his mind still a little sluggish, trying to decipher the meaning behind those words.

"Give him two vials tomorrow. I don't like over medicating, but it will have to do until I can figure out the formula. Tell me if anything unusual occurs again."

"Thank you, Severus," Harry whispers, walking with Severus down the hall.

"And Potter?"

"Yes, Severus?"

"Get the boy to a healer. He's been here almost a year."

**oOoOoOoOo**

_He's been here almost a year._

Devlin throw the covers off his head, breathing in the cool air. At the end of the bed, Zee is regarding him with quirked ears. Devlin scrunches up his nose at the dog, and flops his head down. He would have transformed, but then he wouldn't have been able to think so humanly, and part of him doesn't want to give up this train of thought.

_He's been here almost a year._

Almost a year - it's almost hard to imagine that it has been that long.

_When in that almost-year did you stop calling him Potter and start calling him Dad? _But Devlin knows that had happened far more quickly than other things.

_When in that almost-year did you start keeping your shoes downstairs with everyone else's? When did you start helping to set the table? When did you start leaving your things around the house? _

Devlin pulls the covers over his head again, breathing in the hot air.

_When did you give up on Grandfather? When did you start thinking of this as 'home'?_

But then he peeks out from under his covers and realizes that he hasn't completely done either of those things. There, sitting in front of his desk, as it has always been, is his backpack. There are always ten vials of his medication inside, extra clothes, the money he has earned from allowance, and the items most important to him. If this were his home, all those important things would be around his room, not stuffed in a bag, ready to be brought with him at a moments notice.

Part of him is still waiting for Voldemort. Part of him isn't thinking of this as home. And part of him is still comforted by these realizations. Yet, all those parts do not equal a whole, and there are other parts, many parts, that are as equally as _uncomfortable_ with this realization.

He feels more clearheaded than he has in a long time, but also extremely _calm_. He finds himself standing up and walking into the hallway. He is knocking on his parents door before he even begins to realize they may be asleep. He stops knocking. Maybe he hasn't woken them up.

He waits, but no one comes to him.

_They would think I had a nightmare,_ he thinks and the thought unsettles him, because they have never hesitated to come to his aid before.

The total calm he had felt before shatters and he races down the hallway.

His heart is racing. His feet are flying.

"I don't want to talk about it, Alex!"

Devlin skids to a stop at the bottom of the steps, a mere breath away from shouting for his parents.

"You never want to talk about it, Harry. That's the problem. You keep everything in _here_ until it just explodes and then Ron is dragging you home drunk or you're sleeping at work!"

"I've been better!" Devlin hears Harry shout. Devlin has never heard his father shout. He's never heard him angry at all.

"You've been better in front of _him_ which has consequently meant you've been better in front of _us_, but that shouldn't be mistaken as you truly being better."

"I've been better _because_ of him," Harry seethes. Devlin frowns.

"You've missed dinner this whole week, Harry."

"Because of work!"

"War is your work Harry. Make no mistake - I know what is on your plate. It isn't that you missed dinner so much as, from experience, that is how it starts. You pour your energy into some new crisis at work so that you can forget something and now that Devlin is here, I want to know what the hell you're not telling me!"

"Nothing important."

"If it weren't important, you wouldn't have missed dinnertime!"

"I made dinner tonight!"

"Because I waited! I bribed Emma with a cookie and Devlin with a cheese pastry."

Devlin hears Harry sigh.

"Look, I'm sorry I've been so busy, Alex, but really it is just hectic at work."

"I talked to some friends. The rest of your squad has been home in time for dinner..."

"You called my co-workers?"

"No, I chatted with their wives."

"Merlin, Alex! Even if something is bugging me, I don't _have _to tell you!"

"You wouldn't be this upset unless you felt guilty for _not_ telling me, which means you _need_ to tell me!"

"I'm going out!" Devlin shrinks back a bit as Harry comes storming out of the kitchen, down the hall and grabs his jacket from a hook, all without noticing the nine year old standing in front of the steps.

Alexandra comes to the doorway and is about to turn to Harry at the end of the hall, but instead catches sight of Devlin.

"Oh, Devlin," she whispers, stepping close to him. "Why are you out of bed, sweety?"

Harry has turned around to see and his whole face has drained of color. He opens the door, sticks his head out, and then seems to steel himself, and turns around instead.

Alexandra already has her arms around him.

He only realizes he's crying when he feels her wet blouse against his cheek.

"It's alright, Devlin."

He shakes his head against her.

"No it's not," he whispers and when he peeks out, he can see his father frozen in the hallway.

"Your father and I were just talking, Devlin."

"You were yelling," he says.

"Sometimes that's how adults talk difficult things out. Like when you get upset with us, but we know you still love us and we still love you."

"I know that," he says, because he does. He hadn't thought they didn't care about each other just because they were yelling. "You were yelling because of me."

"Oh no, baby, we weren't. We were talking about something else."

"No you weren't, because you didn't know _what_ you were talking about because Dad wouldn't tell you."

Alexandra falls silent but Devlin thinks they are probably looking at each other across the hall.

"It wasn't about you, Devlin." She sounds almost confident.

"Yeah it was. It was about something Grandfather made me do, Mum. I know it was, because I know Dad would be afraid to tell you because I would have been mad."

"About something Voldemort made you do?" She asks, her voice soft but unwavering, but her hand is grasping at his pajama top and pulling him against her. He turns his head so that he can breath and finds himself staring into his father's eyes. Their eyes are a lot alike. There is fear and desperation and hope shimmering all at once in those famous emerald eyes, but there is also the remnants of anger and determination and all those things mixed together make Devlin wonder once more today how much he and his father might actually share.

"I bit a boy," he whispers, staring unblinking at his father. He hears and feels his mother's heart quicken. "They locked me in a room with him before I transformed."

"Oh God," she sobs, burying her face and her tears in his hair. "Oh God, I'm so sorry Devlin."

"You buried him," Devlin says, trying to be calm for her. She has to know it all. She has to know everything Harry hadn't told her.

"What?" She croaks, half not understanding.

"They made me bite him so that when they killed him, he would trick Remus."

Her body shivers against him, racked with sobs.

"And they told you that? They told you and then made you do it? Oh God, oh God, oh God."

"I saw the newspaper and that's when I knew. I didn't remember the boy for weeks. I don't think my wolf and I were that close then, you know?"

She pulls him closer.

"It's okay, mum."

"It is absolutely _not_ okay," she whispers, breathing into his hair. Harry hangs his jacket back up and comes over to them, wrapping his arms around Alexandra. "I promise, never again." Her tears are falling into his hair. Devlin breathes in her scent and tries to remember this moment that he knows he can't believe, even if every fiber in his body is begging him to do just that.

_Finders keepers,_ he had once told himself as a little boy, when Voldemort had said 'You are mine, because I took you.' _Finders keepers - _Voldemort would find him again, because he was Voldemort's. He belonged to the monster with the red eyes and nothing his parents ever did would change that. He had found him once, he would find him again.

**Upcoming: **

**He'd made it in.**

**He brushes his thumb across the maroon seal for a moment, admiring it's simplicity and meaning. **

And even further ahead:

**Devlin knows he isn't an ordinary boy. **

**Voldemort had went about experimenting to see what he himself would have been like and inadvertently created a weapon. A living, breathing weapon that could choose who it would arm.**

**oOoOo**

**When he looks up, he is met with gleaming green eyes and perfectly parted hair and handsome aristocratic features. **

**"I told you that you looked like me, did I not?" The man asks, his words gentle but well formed. The sound of his voice makes you think him intelligent and wealthy. **

**"Yes," he says simply. He wonders if he should scream. He must warn Maria. He opens his mouth to say something he hopes she will understand, but she is already returning, hardly glancing at the man as she squeezes past him to get to Devlin. She thinks he's just another customer. **

A/N: Can you tell why I need some really encouraging reviews? I have to make up all of Devlin's friends and write the sorting and _everything_, after that is done, I have about 50ish pages written from where the plot really starts going. But filling in the gap is going to be hard, and I'd really appreciate some reviews to get me motivated. :D

_**PLEASE REVIEW!**_


	44. A Young Man

**IMPORTANT NOTICE: this is the last chapter in this story. All other updates will be done under a new story, entitled "Devlin Potter: Part Two" (I know, I suck at titled...I'm working on it!). This other story will be updated at the same time as this one, so hopefully you'll all find it and reissue your subscription and everything. :) **

Devlin tries to shake the dream from his head as he wanders down the stairs that morning. It sounds like the dream had kept him asleep longer than usual, because he already hears Emma at the table, and she's hardly awake before him anymore. When she had been a little girl, she had been more of an early bird than he, but now they seem to have switched roles and he is always the first one up.

His mother is at the table, in the chair facing the door, and she gives him a small knowing smile when he comes to pause in the doorway. He frowns at her, feeling suspicious. Mentally he checks that it is not his birthday, but it is still early in July, so he should be safe.

Tentatively he takes a step into the kitchen.

"Can I please?" Emma whines softly, to their father. He simply shakes his head and whispers 'hush, Emma'. Devlin pauses again, certain he is missing something. Finally, he takes the last step towards the table and sits down quickly.

"Good morning, Devlin," his father says, in a tone that Devlin notes is forced casual. His mother is still smiling at him in that knowing way.

He reaches for a bagel and _that_ is when he see's it, propped up against the bowl full of bagels. Suddenly all their behaviors make perfect sense, and suddenly he couldn't care less about them. He reaches forward, picking the envelope up gingerly.

He'd made it in.

He brushes his thumb across the maroon seal for a moment, admiring it's simplicity and meaning.

The table is hushed around him and he knows all three people must be staring at him.

"I got in," he say softly and tears the envelope open gently. The seal breaks and he pulls the parchment out. He hands the supply list to his mother and simply stares at the first page for a long time. He hadn't known for sure if he'd get in. After all, he wasn't the average ten year old. He knew how to preform two of the Unforgivables. He could see the Thestrals. He was a werewolf. He had spent four years with Voldemort. There were not a lot of parent's who would want him around.

"Did you know I got in?"

His father smiles softly at him and nods. "Yeah, Dumbledore told me you'd get your letter, after he swayed the board. He said it was just in time that your letter wouldn't be late and asked me not to tell you."

Devlin felt odd that Dumbledore had done this for him. If there was someone that Voldemort hated more than Harry Potter, it was Dumbledore. Voldemort had spoken to him very rarely about his own father, but Devlin had heard plenty of Dumbledore bashing from Voldemort and somehow, little bits of it refused to be shaken from him. It was just enough to make any communication he had with Dumbledore extremely awkward. Yet, he certainly owned him something for this. He had made it possible for him to attend Hogwarts, just as he had done with Remus.

**IN CASE YOU MISSED THE NOTICE, THE NEXT UPDATE WILL BE IN A NEW STORY ENTITLED: **

**Devlin Potter: Part Two**

**Look for it now on my author's page! **

**This is the last chapter you'll read here, so I'd **_**really**_** appreciate a review! :**


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